


The Road To Come What May

by roxymissrose



Series: Over The Hills [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Curtain Fic, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: A few years back, Dean grabbed his brother and declared to the world,enough!They’d needed to take a breath, and thanks to an unexpected gift from their father, they were able to settle down, act like civilians, at least for a bit. Now, it was time to go back to their only real home, maybe this time for good. What the hell—let some younger, fresher guys handle the world and its problems.Sure, he’d screwed up a lot in the intervening years, but Dean hoped settling down in a new home, and with the promise of normal, he could make it up to Sam.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> View this as handwaving the series in a gale-storm kind of way. In the prologue, I’ve lifted and just slightly reworked dialogue from Holy Terror, episode 9X9.
> 
> This was written for the spn_j2_bigbang 2019
> 
> Thank you, merakieros, for your absolutely beautiful drawings, I enjoyed working with you! :)
> 
> Thank you so much to the world’s most patient and kind-hearted beta, [firesign10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10). I hope you know how much your help means to me.
> 
> Please be aware there is NSFW art at the end of chapter 3

**Prologue**

  
Dean strolled into the library, light reflecting off the amber glass of a couple of craft brews he held—beer that Dean would swear, if asked, was some mistaken purchase of Sam's and nothing to do with him—and his face set in a look of such nonchalant innocence that Kevin was instantly on edge. "What?"

"Yeah, hi to you, too." Dean set a bottle down on the table and slid the other over to Kevin, whose eyebrows nearly climbed off his forehead at the gesture. Dean sat, cocked his own eyebrow at Kevin until he cracked the bottle and took a tentative sip. He'd barely set it back down before Dean said,"So, you know how an angel can't be kicked out by anyone but the person that said yes?"

Kevin swallowed convulsively and stared at Dean. "I...okay?"

"Okay, what if, say hypothetically, I wanted to talk to the vessel, without the squatter listening in? That there was a way to like, power down an angel, enough so that it wasn't in charge for a few minutes?"

Kevin took another sip, eyeing Dean over the bottle. "...Why?"

"Kevin, we've got tons of possessed humans out there, and—aw, fuck. No, you know what? Screw it. Kevin, I got Sam possessed by an angel—"

Kevin spat a mouthful of beer across the table, spattering Dean and his notes." WHAT?"

Dean flinched, grimacing as he wiped a sleeve-covered hand across his chest. "There's an angel inside Sam," Dean repeated slowly, those few words heavily inflected with 'duh'.

"What do you mean, there's an angel inside Sam? Dean…? Dean...I think you’d better start from the beginning." 

"The beginning. Yeah, sure, soon as I figure out where the fuck that is. So. Those trials. Um...Sam was fucked up when we quit, and...I did something. And, unh, in my defense, I thought I was doing the right thing. At the time."

"Dean. What the hell did you do?"

**PART 1**

  
_Baba O'Riley_ blasted from the direction of his nightstand; his phone jittered across the bare top—wiped clean when he swept everything off trying to find the damn thing. Sam flopped onto his back, glancing to his right despite himself, the same way he'd done every morning since he could remember; turning his head towards Dean, or where Dean would have been if they were in a motel room together.

The ringtone repeated. A reluctant smile started to tilt the corners of Sam's mouth until he remembered that, yeah, changing his alarm had been one of Dean's favorite pranks; something he'd stopped doing around the time this entire shitstorm went down. The dick probably didn't even remember fucking around with his phone now. The thought sent a wave of weariness skudding through him, made Sam feel like he hadn't slept at all. 

The dim bluish gleam of a baseboard nightlight cast just enough light for him to spot his phone, perched on the very edge of the nightstand. Every morning he woke to that light and the feeling of being sunk undersea— sometimes it kinda bothered him that without his phone, he'd never even know what time of day it was. He pushed himself upright with a deep sigh, his back gifting him with a spastic twinge as he did, pulling a frown out of him. 

Sam palmed his phone with one hand and rubbed at his eyes with the other, clearing tangled hair from his face. He spent a few minutes skimming his messages before putting it aside with a sigh. "Shit," he murmured. "Up and at 'em, Sam. Deep breath; hit the bricks." He winced at how much he sounded like his dad had, bullying them out of bed and onto those fucking early morning runs.

Coffee first, then everything else. He wondered if Dean was in, rubbed the sudden sharp pain out of his chest. His brother had been a little odd – odder than usual – lately. Kind of...distant, while also being clingy. Sam grinned wryly. Yeah, only Dean could pull that off. 

Sam made for the kitchen, schlepping around barefoot as he flicked on lights, set the coffee pot to brewing, making sure there was enough in the pot for him and Kevin, and then Dean when he finally came in. The sink and the counters were clear—a sure indication that Dean hadn't been back to the bunker yet. The man could cook like nobody’s business, but his cleanup? Left a little to be desired. He turned towards the meatlocker fridges, figuring he'd have cereal and wait for Dean to show up, when he was sideswiped by a sickening roll of vertigo. Gasping, he grabbed a counter edge, leaned against it and waited for the feeling of being in a canoe on choppy seas to fade. "Fuck, fuck that a lot," he groaned. 

That had been...unpleasant, to say the least, but not totally unexpected. The world doing sudden barrel rolls was part of the continuing fallout of his failure with the Trials. Stopping the Trials was still having a negative effect on him, but oddly not as intensely as he'd expected. What with watching the angels fall one minute, and the next, waking up in a hospital bed, feeling like ten pounds of crap in a one pound bag, Sam wasn't really surprised to still be feeling off. Yeah, so, sudden vertigo was nothing, definitely not as big a deal compared to coughing up his lungs or spitting up blood on a daily basis. This was…

"Pfft," he said to himself, waving it off. "Peanuts. And stop talking to yourself," he muttered.

He decided to toss a few slices of bread into the toaster so he could say he had a hot breakfast if Dean asked. At least he _was_ hungry, and that was in equal parts a strange feeling and a good feeling. He forgotten what it was like to eat because he wanted to, not because he had to. He wondered if maybe Cas had sneaked in some low-key healing he wasn't talking about. Sam thought it was a distinct possibility. He'd never actually told Dean then just how bad he'd felt most of the time; he'd felt like – like—

Truthfully? He'd been dying. Sam knew he'd been dying—he wasn't a fool. He wondered if Dean knew just how close he'd been to it…that he hadn’t been in _danger_ of dying, that’d he’d actually been right there, knocking at Death’s door, so to speak. He shrugged. He’d recovered; he was, if not fine, then...pretty good, so it was old news, now. Water under the bridge.

Sam took the few steps up to the war room, set his stuff down on the map table and sighed, feeling something like ease. He liked the warm glow of the light panels over the bank of ancient control consoles, as well the dim, soft, light the map table gave off. It was nice actually; the MoL managed somehow to make functionality feel cozy, despite the machines and files and mysterious devices tucked into alcoves. Well, at least _he_ found it so. 

Sam scrunched a little deeper down into the rolling chair he'd claimed as his. Realized that he'd used that chair so much the leather was almost molded to his ass. They’d really settled in here, put down their bags, put up their feet. Sipping coffee, slowly nibbling on dry toast, he thought about the bunker. How the place had become more than just a base of operations. It had a feeling of home—well, to Dean at least. He had to admit, it was...comfortable. A good working space. He liked how clean it was, the privacy it afforded. He liked the access they had to books, to necessary materials, in a way that they'd never had before, not even at Bobby's. _Bobby._ Sam huffed a soft laugh. The old man would have loved the fuck out of this place, no doubt.

The bunker was safe, remote, but thank god, not in the middle of ass-back nowhere—well mostly not. Lebanon wasn't exactly the Vegas of the heartland or anything, but they'd spent enough time in their lives sacked out in falling down shacks, squatting in abandoned hunting cabins, that the bunker was actually luxurious. Living in it was almost as good as the year they'd spent living...Sam's mind skittered away from the half-formed thought. Going down that road was never a good trip.

Anyway, The bunker had advantages besides its retro charm. Here they had Chinese food every Friday that they weren't on the road, along with a standing...date...for movies that sometimes Sam was even allowed to pick, and a choice of clean, dry, comfortable beds. Dean's bed even had memory foam. Sam stifled a small laugh with a piece of toast. Well, okay—Dean thought it did. Sam had never had the heart to tell him his mattress was actually mildly, sort-of-vaguely, sentient due to magic, and ensorcelled to adjust to the body on it. The Men of Letters seemed to have had a bit of a hedonistic streak, and apparently did not subscribe to the notion that using magic for your own pleasure was wrong. Sam took a long sip of heavenly coffee. Pleasures like endlessly hot water, self-adjusting room temperatures, a pantry always stocked with the basics, and coffee: magically, ever fresh beans, so damn good that drinking it bordered on an erotic experience, judging by the look on Dean's face every morning.

Or maybe that was just him….

Sam stood, set his tablet aside, and stacked his empty cup atop his crumb-covered plate. He'd been idly checking out local papers and news feeds the last few days, looking for the odd and inexplicable and he’d found that in spades: a rash of miraculous healing, sudden mental upset, unexplained amnesia, Weekly World News-style spontaneous combustion—some more liquid and less fiery than others—which he figured all pointed to the evicted angels. 

Damn angels. Almost as bad as demons. 

He carried his plate and cup back into the kitchen, set them in the sink. He felt more than heard a movement behind him and glanced over his shoulder, and dropped a plate—crockery hit the cast-iron sink and shattered. 

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Dean!"

Because yeah, his fucking brother had suddenly appeared in the doorway like a damn apparition, the sneaky-ass sonofabitch, looking at him in that new, kicked-kitten way he had that was driving Sam crazy. And any second now he was going to do that other thing he'd started doing late—yep. There it was.

"Sam?"

Sam picked the pieces of plate out of the sink and tossed them, cursing quietly as he did. It was fucking driving him _crazy_ the way Dean said his name these days, like he was always half expecting it _not_ to be him. It was really, sincerely fucking annoying. He didn't even know why, just that Dean uttering a single, little, tentative _″Sam"_ was enough to flip his switches...Sam bit his lip. Maybe Dean sounded so insecure because of what had happened in the church, specifically how he'd talked Sam out of finishing the trials and how he'd...done whatever it was he'd done to get him out of that churchyard. The only thing Sam really remembered about it all was what his brother had said in the church, and how at the time, it'd felt like Dean sealing what they were to each other, and then... _kissed_ him, like they hadn't really since...since that year in their _real_ home. The only place Sam _really_ thought of as his and Dean's. Their home, that they'd created together.

Then it was the hospital, Sam drowning inside his head, and—God, he'd really thought he was dying. He'd thought that Bobby told him he was good to go, that he'd talked with Death himself who'd...well, that had to have been a dream, because Death had sounded _honored_ to take him...Sam blushed slightly. _Hubris._ Sam knew anytime anyone had told him how worthy he was, how special, it'd always been a dream or a lie. Except for Dean. On the fucking rare occasion when he said it.

And somewhere in a state between waking and dreaming, he remembered Dean grabbing him, and was pretty sure Dean had told him, 'There ain't no me if there ain't no you'.

Which led him back to this thought: why didn't Dean remember what he’d said in the church? Why was he so hell bent on pushing Sam away while at the same time giving him this...imitation of their real home? He blinked back to the here-and-now when Dean cleared his throat, asking, "Hey...Sammy, can I uh...talk to you? I mean, _talk_ talk-to-you talk?"

"What? Look, Dean—" Sam said.

* * * 

And Sam blinked, rubbed his eyes. He hated that they felt so dry and gritty and...and what the fuck was he doing in the garage? Hadn't he just been in the kitchen? He remembered doing dishes...but here he was cleaning out the car. Dean was digging through the trunk, muttering to himself and sounding like he was pissed. Sam blinked harder, trying to drive the grit out of his eyes, squinting against the sudden glare of light. "Dean?" Had he done something to piss Dean off?  
Yet a few seconds later he felt fine again. In fact, better than fine. He stretched, wondering why he felt so good, like he'd had a long, deep sleep in a comfortable feather bed instead of risking touching something gross under the seats. He inhaled, and it smelled like fresh, air-dried cotton linens, the smell of a summer afternoon when a slight breeze cut the heat. It reminded him of Saturdays with Jess. Sam shook his head and frowned. Stanford was not a thing he liked thinking about. Happy as he was with his brother, like, really, really, _this-is everything-I-wanted_ happy, he still felt a prick of sad nostalgia for his life back then, the way it'd been so easy, normal...until it wasn't. He'd loved Jess, he really had, but deep down, he knew it was never the way he should have. Whether he’d wanted to admit it or not, Dean had always been the center of Sam’s world, and letting go, learning to love this life of his, had probably been the most honest thing he’d ever done.

Sam shook off the last bit of introspective weirdness, took a step and almost stumbled. He slapped a hand down on the car to steady himself, realizing that under all the fizzy, giddy, good feeling he was _tired._ So fucking tired and had been for a while. More and more, there came these times he wanted to stop, let someone else carry the load, just for a little bit. No one had to tell him how selfish that was. 

He tossed the bag full of candy wrappers and gnawed up straws into the trash drum by the garage doors, made a mental note it was time to take the "safe" garbage to the dump, and tossed Dean a "Gonna lay down, maybe read."

Dean looked up and smiled. "Okay. Lay down in mine; I'll be a bit, but maybe we can watch a movie?"

Sam flipped him a thumbs up, and headed towards their bedrooms, but veered towards his own at the last minute. All of a sudden, he needed to be alone. He had an odd, irrational feeling of being crowded, like his attention was being pulled all different directions—despite the fact it was only him, Dean, Cas and Kevin in the bunker, and none of them were dogging him. Even Dean was giving him more space than normal and instead of it feeling weird, it felt...good. And he hated that it felt good. The wave of irritation and anger that was becoming second nature to him crawled over his skin like hot ants. He shook his head. His brother could be a bit much. So space was good. 

He nodded, kicking off his boots and spreading out on his bed. _Except._

Maybe there was a hair too much space? Like, it was not so much Dean giving him space as Dean avoiding him. There was a serious lack of random squeezes or hugs, or stopping Sam in the hall or the shower to tilt his head down for a kiss. No sex. No cuddles. No sex. 

Sam rolled to his side, and was mildly surprised to see his tablet and empty coffee cup sitting on the desk. He could have sworn he'd left all that in the kitchen. Hadn’t he dropped a plate…? 

Whatever. His thoughts drifted back to Dean, and the way he seemed to be avoiding Sam lately, and the odd issue of sex—or more to the point, _no sex..._

Honestly, he'd not even really felt the desire for it lately. Just a vague, slight interest from time to time. Dean wasn't touching him, and Sam wasn't touching himself. Not that he'd shrivel up and die without it a certain someone he could name. He was having odd and vivid dreams about Dean and himself, though, like sex dreams that took a turn into weirdness. Dean and he kept turning into some kind of being made of energy, and the sort-of-sex seemed to involve Sam poking bits of his energy into the energy-thing his brain tried to tell him was Dean when he was pretty sure it really wasn't. The energy-not-sex stuff was. Well. Pretty good actually, and he'd felt mildly superior for a few minutes after waking from each dream. It was neat and not sticky, and therefore preferable – and when had that ever mattered to him? Especially when he _liked_ it sweaty, slippery, and stinking hot?

He was being weird. Weirder. 

Should he tell Dean about these possible Trial side-effects? Or maybe Cas, who was less inclined to morph into a solid wall of worry, and couldn’t give a shit what track Sam's sex life took, thank god? 

What the fuck. So much for sleeping. He got up again and slipped his feet back into boots—he left the dead guy slippers to Dean—and headed to the library. Maybe Kevin was up. Gone was the desire to be alone. Right now, he could use some company.

Sam was heading towards the library when Dean came at him from the kitchen. "Sam, hey, Sam—can you give me a hand in the storeroom? I was trying to find some...some…"

"More vintage porn?" Sam huffed, and Dean pasted on a look of insulted innocence. 

_"No._ Well, not just porn. Besides, I'm grown—I can do what I want."

″Yeah, yeah, Cartman. So, storeroom? And what are we looking for besides your misogynistic and borderline-racist porn?" 

Sam made a little sweeping gesture in the room's direction and Dean grinned wider and took the lead. He pushed the door open, sarcastically copying Sam's lead-on gesture as he did. "I was shoving around some of those boxes stacked up over there by the wall and found a stash of books I think Bobby used to have—you know me when it comes to books, though." He tilted his head to the side and faked snoring. 

Sam laughed. "Jerk," he chuckled, and elbowed his goofy brother out of the way. "Let me see what you got. It'd be great to replace the books that burned or got water-damaged."

Sam headed over to wall, wondering if maybe there'd be a copy of the _Liber Paginarum Fulvarum._ He hadn't found a copy yet on the MoL shelves; he was beginning to think the book was a one of a kind. Considering what Bobby's book had been bound in, he kind of hoped that it was. He was bending to kneel next to a pile of musty old tomes when he was startled by a weird noise behind him, a squishy slap, like something wet hitting the wall and he—

* * * 

  
"Dean!" Kevin shouted as Dean tried to slip past him.

 _Shit!_ He almost lost his grip on the cup he held, topped to the brim with hot coffee. And maybe a splash or two or so of Jameson's. He fumbled, steadied it with a pleased smirk at not losing a drop. He thought briefly, longingly, of his bed, which he was obviously not going to be visiting any time soon. Sam was off somewhere on one of his weird-ass grocery runs, Cas was in the ether, and Dean was just fucking tired. Five minutes, that's all he wanted, five damn minutes to lay the fuck down and not think about a goddamn thing. But, yeah, no. Not happening this day. 

He shook himself. 'Stop being a dick,' he thought. With any luck, the kid finally found what they've been looking for. 

"Dean!" Kevin waved him impatiently into the library, and swung a thick, dusty book that smelt vaguely of incontinent cat around on the table to face him, stopping him in his tracks. "I found something—I think—" 

The look Kevin gave him made his gut clench. He bought himself a few seconds, sipping too-hot coffee, wiped his mouth. "Okay...so, give. What thing did you find?"

"I'm pretty damn sure _this_ is it," Kevin said. His eyes were full of hope, even a little triumph; one corner of his mouth pulled up in that sarcastic little curl he'd learned since living with the Winchesters. "Actually, I know this is it. It's...it's not even that big a deal, you know. We don't have to hunt down a golden ram or a medusa's eyeballs, or, or…"

Forcing down a jab of irritation, Dean rubbed his eyes, carefully set his cup down. "Kevin. What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Never mind. We probably have everything we need, it's such a little bit of a spell. It's coupled with these sigils that power it up to snooze an angel. We just need a brush and...your blood, but again, just a little bit."

"Of course we do," Dean sighed.

  
Dean ached all over; his head was doing its best to kill him with the motherfucking queen of all migraines. The pain was so intense he wanted to curl up in a miserable, self-pitying, little ball. But fuck if he was taking the easy way out; he was gonna sit right the fuck there until Sam woke up, and he was gonna shut the hell up about how much he hurt because he didn't deserve _not_ to hurt. He didn't deserve a fucking thing, not after all the shit he'd put his brother through. 

Dean raised his head from his arms, squinting as he rubbed careful circles into his temples and gritty-feeling eyes. Christ, he thought, at least the lighting in the hospital room was dim—a blessing there—and the non-stop beeping/chirping of the various monitors had actually gone from annoying to kinda soothing over the hours he’d spent crouched over Sam's bedside. 

Dean shifted, propped his elbows on the edge of Sam's hospital bed and rested his chin on his fists. Sam had the nerve to look almost tiny in it...god, so thin and pale, swathed in white like, like he was barely darker than the damn sheets. There was only Sam’s bed in what was supposed to be a two person room, and it made the room look so big, Dean felt kind of uncomfortably exposed. He pulled himself in tighter, instinctively making a smaller target.

"Fuck." The hand over his mouth smeared the word into his palm. He couldn't keep his eyes off Sam, the way he looked like death barely warmed over. Because of _him._ If he'd stopped Sam from right from the get-go from doing the Trials. If Dean had been faster, stronger, if he'd told Sam sooner about Gadreel...all of this was his fault, and Sam was right to hate him. 

Dean ground his palms against his aching eyes, smearing brusquely wiping tears tears away. "I'm so sorry, Sammy, I'm so fuckin' sorry…I put you right back here, all my fault."

When Kevin had given Dean what he wanted, the relief he'd felt went so fucking deep, it was painful. What he'd found in that book had seemed like the Hail Mary they’d been looking for. Kevin had found sigils that would freeze an angel, even one at archangel level, long enough to give Sam time to force Gadreel out—to lock him out of Sam forever and ever, And then Kevin had told Dean he was fairly certain that besides powering Gadreel down, the book contained spells that, combined with the angel tablet, would explode his lying ass right back to wherever angels went when they got forcibly kicked out—and he thought maybe, just maybe, create a way to not only open heaven back up to the angels but to send them back en masse.

Truthfully, at the time, Dean had barely given a rat's ass about heaven and angels; all he'd heard was they'd found a way to free Sam, and going back to the way things had been was some barely perceived icing on the cake. 

Dean swallowed hard, and stroked Sam's cold, limp hand, dragged his thumb over Sam's thankfully steady pulse. He closed his eyes against the hot sting of fresh tears, and remembered. He'd been sure that he was in the right, practically shoving Gadreel down Sammy's throat. Ignoring Dean had ignored the voice in the back of his mind that screamed it was wrong, wrong, wrong. Someday he was going to learn to check his over-inflated surety when it came to Sam.

He remembered too, how he'd weasled Sam into the storeroom he and Kevin had warded, how he'd explained everything about what and why he'd done what he'd done, how Sam had reacted just about the way he'd expected him too, namely, had clocked the shit out of him.

* * * 

  
"Okay, ow, I deserved that." Dean leaned against the wall he'd painted with his blood, just missing smearing the sigils with his head. The pain from Sam's spot-on punch settled like a big throbbing block in the middle of his face. Dean kept his eyes on Sam and his ass on the floor. With Sam looming over him like a hugely hacked-off yeti, his shoulders curled in and his arms out to the side in the way that screamed, 'c'mon and piss me the fuck off some more', it was the only smart thing to do.

"You deserve more than that, you...you fucker. How could you? You know how fucked up it is to do this to me, you know!" Sam shouted, and Dean winced. He lowered his voice, tried to appear little and defenseless and not worth an ass-whipping.

"Okay, Sammy— _Sam—_ I know it sucks, and I get that you're pissed off at me taking the reins without telling you, but—"

"No! That's not even—it's like—you, you let me get violated! You were complicit in *arranging* for me to get violated, god! I'm, I was trapped, Dean, it didn't matter whether I knew it or not. Trapped in my own head and again, I'm getting my will *shit* on, because of YOU." He grabbed fistfuls of his hair and squeezed his eyes shut; he was shaking all over. "I can't—I can't go through this again," he cried, stumbling back until he hit the opposite wall. Dean stared at him—Sam's lips moved, frantically, but he couldn't hear what Sam was saying—

"God, no, it wasn't like that, Sam. I had to, you were dying and—please, please let's do this another time, please! Now you got to—to throw him out," Dean's voice dropped from a shout to a whisper, watching as Sam's furious gesturing slowed, his frantic whispering slowly gained volume; he could make out Sam was muttering over and over again, "Get out…" and then his brother just...froze. 

"Sam." Dean stared in horror, his eyes locked on Sam, who was deep in a fight that Dean was not a part of; a fight he prayed that Sam was going to win, and afterward, that Sam would forgive him.

* * * 

_Sam stormed through the bunker hallways; they looped and dropped and rose and looped in a way that they didn't in real life. Suddenly the hallway opened wide and bright, light reflecting off sparkling tile. He took a moment to think, "I'm definitely in the dreamscape, it's never this damn clean—" but his thoughts were derailed by catching sight of a tall shadow flickering into being at the end of the hall. The dream-like quality dropped away; for a moment Sam thought he was back in the real-time bunker until the doors melted and disappeared. Rage flared through him like a wildfire when he realized he was still deep in the dreamscape, in fact, he was coming to realize he had been there on and off for a long time, and it was because of the sonofabitch striding away him. Sam charged after him, caught him just as he was trying to escape through one of the doors. Digging both of his hands into the dick's jacket and yanking him in, Sam roared, "You! Get out, you bastard, get out!"_

_*Gadreel.* In the instant Sam touched him, he knew that this was the angel Gadreel. Sam knew why he was there and how he was there, and he didn't give a flying fuck._

_"Sam, if you throw me out, you'll die," Gadreel begged, hands wrapping around Sam's wrists, wincing when Sam jerked out of his reach. "You have to understand that I'm helping you. What I'm doing, it's healing you, and me too, but you're benefiting the most, I promise."_

_Sam took another step away from the angel, dragging his hands through his hair, clawing it off his face. Taking a deep breath before trusting himself to speak, he whispered, "You? You're...healing me?"_

_Gadreel stood a little taller, a faint wash of hope coloring his expression. "Yes! I'm not taking anything from you, I'm just...I'm healing you. You know what the Trials did to you. You were dying."_

_"Not taking anything from me?" Sam asked and Gadreel shook his head. "But...you tricked me into taking you in, you and Dean." He laughed bitterly. "You needed my permission to be here, and Dean made that happen."_

_"Yes, but look at all it's done—"_

_Sam's stood taller, his blood boiling with anger. He hissed, "I rescind my permission. Get out."_

_"Sam—"_

_"Get. The. Fuck. OUT."_

* * * 

Dean stood close to the wall, hovering over the sigils he had smeared into the walls under Kevin's direction, the ones that with any luck would send that asshat back to angel jail the minute Sam tossed him out. His palm burned, his lungs ached—he kept forgetting to breathe.

Sam suddenly stumbled, eyes flaring that acidic angel-blue, the unbearable flood of pure grace pouring out of him like an ocean wave. Dean slammed his hand onto the trigger sigil with a wet splat, and all hell broke loose. The closet pulsed with ferocious light. Dean dropped flat against the floor, head jammed in the crook of his arms, shielding his eyes and hoping like hell he’d still have them after this. He felt the light streaming over him, risked a peek to see it just as it flared out against the ceiling.

The air rushed back with a roar. It appeared that Gadreel had been ejected, and according to Kevin, should’ve been shot back into heaven. Well, wherever the fuck he went that wasn't Sam, Dean was just fine with. 

Dean dragged himself to his knees, then slowly upright, blinking like mad. His vision was a little blurry, his eyes felt like they'd been lightly sanded and rolled in breadcrumbs, but he could see, thank god. Across from him, he could just about make out Sammy, saw him waver, then fold up gently to the floor, like a stop-motion puppet. He hit soundlessly, rolled to his back and in a second, was snoring slightly. 

Dean's heart started beating again, relief sweeping over him and leaving him fucking weak and kinda weepy. Sammy was okay, he was fine, fucking *sleeping.* 

"How 'bout that,″ he muttered, laughing a little wetly, gratefully. When his boy woke up, Dean was gonna rag on him mercilessly for snor—

A spastic shudder ran down the long length of Sam's body, his limbs twitched; under his tightly closed lids, his eyes jerked back and forth, shot open, and a second later Sam was seizing, hard, his back bowing so he was touching the floor at his shoulders and ass and nothing but air in between.

* * * 

  
Dean felt Castiel coming in behind him, the sound like leaves in a wind storm giving his arrival away. His overly-concerned expression was barely visible in the dim room. His tie was a little more askew than normal, and he had a hand resting on the shoulder of a rather nauseated young Prophet of The Lord. The sight of Kevin, slightly green and disheveled, pulled a brief flash of a smile from Dean before sinking away. He felt too hollowed out to feel anything but worry for long.

"Hey, fellas. What are you doing here—not that I'm not glad you came, it's just…" He caught sight of the thick, suspicious-looking book Kevin was clutching to his chest like a middle-school girl with her super-secret journal. "What's with the moldy scrapbook, dude?"

"Kevin has found an exceptionally useful spell," Cas spoke up, beaming at the young man like he'd performed an especially clever trick. 

Kevin and Dean rolled their eyes, nearly in sync, but Kevin was definitely pleased under his mask of indifference. "So, I found another book, and this one’s got what looks like a counter-spell, thing, sort of, to Metatron's original spell. We can return the angels—I think we might even be able to seal heaven and hell, if we wanted to. No more demons, no more angelic interference. No offense," he said to Cas, who waved him off with a small smile.

Dean felt a flash of fury on Sam’s behalf, over the way he’d suffered trying to do those trials. Dean crammed it down, swallowed the rage like all the shit he’d swallowed since he was four years old and his life had been destroyed. "Just fucking reverse the fucking spell, get them the fuck out of here, and fucking get Metatron back in his fucking dungeon where he belongs."

Kevin’s eyes went wide, he paled a little before managing to croak out a weak, "Right. Yes, as soon as possible, I swear.″ He held out the thick, moldering book with a tentative smile, gently tapping an open page. "This is how we get rid of the angels," and carefully turning a few more of the thick, greasy-looking pages until he came to a marker, Kevin said, "and this is where we get rid of Metatron." The grin he turned on Dean was now a little more assured, almost cocky. "I think you'll be happy to know it doesn't require Winchester blood or angel grace," he said, cutting his eyes at Castiel.

"Good," Dean said, "Go for it. You guys can handle it."

Cas stared at Dean. "But...what about you and Sam?"

"What about me and Sam? What about us? The minute, the goddamn _second_ Sammy can stand on his own two feet, we're fucking out of here. Hear me? We're out."

"But you can't—"

"Fucking try and stop me," Dean snarled. "We're done. For now. Until Sam gets back on his feet again—to my satisfaction—maybe, maybe even longer. Look, we did it before, took off when we needed to, and the world didn't end, and nothing got worse. And I'm sayin' now we need to do it again."

Cas stared at Dean, that unblinking, reptilian look he got sometimes when he was thinking very, very hard. He finally took a deep breath, nodded. He reached out to Dean, wrapping fingers around Dean's wrist in a gentle, but strong grip. Dean startled—it wasn't often that Cas touched him and it felt...oddly comforting. "Of course. You'll want to go back to the bunker. You have everything you need there. And we'll make sure that nothing disturbs you while we work."

"Yeah, about that. I mean, the bunker's great. I love the bunker, it makes a perfect base to work from. But for Sam...I love our place better."

"'Your place'?" Cas stared at Dean and then his brow cleared, his mouth moved silently a few seconds and then he slumped a bit. "Of course. Your place. I see." 

He raised his head again, his eyes were full of pain. But he just nodded and said, "I understand. Kevin and I will...sweep up here." he said and Dean could practically see the quotes vibrating in the air. "Don't worry. And I may not be able to do what Gadreel did in terms of healing Sam, but I can examine him now, and make sure he did what he said he would do for Sam. I won't be able to totally heal him, but I might be able to boost whatever healing grace Gadreel left behind."

"Thanks, Cas. I appreciate it."

"Cas, why don’t you…" Kevin swallowed, went a bit paler. "Guh, take me back to the bunker first, and then take care of Sam? Sound all right, Dean?"

"Thanks, Kevin, more than I can say, dude." 

Kevin nodded, bracing himself as Cas touched fingers to his forehead and they were gone. 

Dean sighed, rubbing his nose against the quickly fading scent of storms lingering in the air; he stepped back as the nurse came in. 

She worked around him, quietly, efficiently. When she was done, she looked up at Dean, her stern expression softening. "How are you doing?" she asked and Dean nodded at her. 

"Doing okay. Just. Y'know, waiting on him."

"Umh, your brother, right?" she said it in that way that used to annoy him when he was younger. That lifted eyebrow and faint hint of _your brother, riiiight_ in her voice. It didn't bother him anymore. It was true, wasn't it? Sam was more than his brother, but shit, he always had been. It just took a year in a home of their own to figure that out, and they’d been happy there. They'd slogged through neck-high shit and fucking deserved some rest. And okay, when they’d hit the road again, some stuff had to drop by the wayside, and he’d expected it. Being out and dealing with the real world again, well...Dean didn’t have much to offer. He wasn’t exactly a great prospect. Didn’t matter—he'd never changed in feeling that Sam was his everything, and he was pretty sure Sam had felt something close to it, once. Too bad Dean had screwed any chance he’d had of getting Sammy back there again, Dean thought, grimacing at the memory of the look in Sam’s eye when Dean had explained Gadreel.

There was a presence at his back that wasn't the nurse. That distant flicker of many wings, and again the scent of thunderstorms in the air. "What's up, Cas?"

"Yes, it’s me. Do you want to stay with Sam while I work…?"

"Nah, nah. You do your thing, you don't need me for this. I'm going to get some coffee."

"And food."

"Yeah, and coffee," 

"Food," Cas repeated, his lips tightened in a resolute line. "You need food, Dean," the angel insisted. 

"Yes, food too, for fuck's sake, Grandma."

Cas looked momentarily confused, before his expression shifted into a bitchy little squint he had to have learned from Sam. It made Dean grin.

He sat in the cafeteria for a while, leaving Cas to quietly heal as much as he could of Sam. Dean rolled the cup in his hands back and forth, tipping it to watch the black liquid slosh around in the white cardboard. At least Zeke—Gadreel—had told the truth about healing Sam, or so Cas said. Cas also thought that Gadreel could have healed Sam sooner and more completely, but Dean wasn't going to spit on what little good came of it. All he needed was to have Sam ambulatory, and out of the hospital and then—well, they'd talk about then.

Days later—sooner than he had expected, actually—Sam was home with him again, walking, talking, and bitching him out about everything and nothing. He fucking loved it. Somewhere in there, Kevin and Cas managed to send the angels back. And adding to the upheaval, Crowley sealed most exits in Hell— _"we're going back to the pre-Azazel shenanigans, boys"_ — 

Afterwards, Dean and Sam had to endure long, dreary, lectures from Cas and Kevin. In fact, fucking everybody left who knew them had to throw in their two cents, revolving around how 'they’d done enough for a million lifetimes and taking away the world’s belts and shoelaces was not their concern anymore’, and that 'ordinary hunters were perfectly capable’ of handling the everyday monsters and madness that had happened since the dawn of time. 

After hearing how much they’d done, and how much they deserved a rest, and how it was past time they were due it over and over and over, Dean decided what the fuck, might as well go for broke. With heart-felt prayers repeating on a loop in his brain that this wasn’t going to be the thing that finally broke them, he broached the idea of retiring to Sam….

* * *

"So, that's where we are right now." Dean waited, staring at Sam. They were sitting side by side in the high-back leather chairs in the library, both clutching cups. Sam’s was full of gently steaming tea, and Dean’s was full of...not-tea.

Sam was still weak and kinda pale, his knees trembling under the blanket Dean had insisted on tucking around his legs. Strictly for Sam’s comfort, not at all because it made Sam look like all he was missing was a cat and a shawl. Dean could be an ass with Sam now if he wanted—Cas swore that Sammy would rapidly improve now, and that was great. Dean was doing his best to treat his little brother like always, his usual mix of concern and dickery. Sometimes, though, he still felt like Sam was standing on the edge of a cliff, and he was just waiting at the bottom to catch him…he shook himself and concentrated on Sam again, just as Sam answered.

"Okay, well, that's...that's great," Sam said, hands shaking as he set his cup down in the ashtray stand they were currently using as cup holders. "So. Retiring, hunh?″ in a way that sounded a lot like, _so we’re just walking away_ instead of _yay, we’re owed a break._

"Well, retiring...I...you know, we want things, a-and the world, I mean, I know the world is a sketchy motherfucker with really bad impulse control, but...yeah. As much as we can? We're callin' a halt. And not because of you, damn it. Because we need it. _Me,_ I want it. Fuck, Sammy, don’t you think it’s time?″

Sam leaned back in his chair, chin tilted down as he thought. Dean didn’t like that it was taking so long—first thing outta Sam's mouth should’ve been _hell the fuck yeah,_ as far as Dean was concerned, but Sam was silent as he traced the brass inlay in the floor with one socked foot, lip tucked tight between his teeth. 

Dean waited, barely breathing, for Sam’s answer. He finally looked up, his eyes locked on Dean’s like lasers. Another uncomfortable silence went by before Sam finally spoke. 

"Okay. Yeah. But not here."

"O-oh?"

"Look, I, I love this place, I do. It's...great. But...I want to be somewhere where all the memories are good. You know? Where I wasn't trapped...I mean…"

"I know, I got you," Dean said, holding up his hands. "Okay. We can’t stay here. So...let's go home." He dropped his head into his hands, rubbed his face. He looked up at Sam, and let it all go; the worry, the guilt—for a moment, he felt the most certain he had in ages, ready to go. He smiled. "Fuck, I'm such an idiot. Let's go home, Sammy."

Sam looked confused for maybe a half second before his face lit up, and he grinned so wide, he looked beautiful. Happy. Happier than he’d looked in a long, long time. 

"Yeah, yeah Dean. Let's go home."

* * * 


	2. Chapter 2

**_Sam_**  
Sam watched the road roll past from where he lay in the back seat. He was sweating slightly, thanks to being wrapped up in an old blanket—a threadbare relic from some long ago motel. He'd been forced into the back by Dean, who persisted in treating him like some delicate Victorian invalid. Not only had Dean rolled him up like a burrito, but he'd taken his laptop away—the fucker wouldn't even let him have a _book,_ leaving Sam to die of boredom, forced to count mile markers as they sped down the road. The only blessing in the situation was Dean having relaxed his usual stranglehold on the radio. _Tear In My Heart_ was playing at a level not designed to wreck his eardrums and, Sam thought, even discounting the burrito-making and laptop-stealing, Dean allowing Twenty-one Pilots to grace his speakers was a clear indicator of the amount of guilt he was feeling. 

It was frustrating, sometimes to the point of pissing him off, that he couldn’t get it through Dean’s head that feeling any kind of guilt was a waste of time. Sam had forgiven him—okay, so maybe forgiving and forgetting all the shit Dean had done was a work in progress. Still, his brother wasn’t alone in the fucking up, right? They were Winchesters—screwing the pooch was a trait practically written into their genes. All that crap? Sam was taking it and shoving it in the big, fucking, box of things he’d deal with at some fabled future date. He could do it too, because despite all the shit Dean showered him with, Sam knew how truly, deeply, his brother loved him. How he wanted only the best for him. 

Even if sometimes the best Dean wanted for him was kind of stupid and fucked up and not entirely in Sam’s best interest....

At least now they were headed back to a place that he’d truly been happy in, probably the happiest he’d ever been. He was glad, and wanted to be truly grateful, but considering the _way_ they'd ended up at this point, he couldn't be, not completely.

He'd had a mission, and failed totally—demons would still be infecting the world, rogue angels would _still_ be a problem if not for Kevin and Cas managing to complete what he hadn’t been able to. He given in, and lost any chance he’d had to be truly clean. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the sight of Dean being Dean in the front seat. Tapping out an aimless beat on the steering wheel, troubled gaze split between the road and the back seat; if he didn't start paying better attention to the road, his eternal quest to 'save Sam' was going to be moot. 

Eventually, the roll of the tires, the slight rock of the car, the warmth and smell of the vinyl under his cheek; all those familiar things, plus the pills he'd swallowed before he'd climbed into the car, worked to untangle his tightly strung, barbwire nerves. He slipped into sleep before they were more than a couple of hours out. 

_He was wandering some deserted road somewhere, the world it cut through a weird, wild, too bright landscape, the air full of Dean yelling garbled rivers of words at him and Cas jumping out from behind burning bushes and Kevin screaming and burning and an archangel swinging a giant sword made of fire in one hand and throwing flaming snakes at him with the other…._

Sam jerked awake, sweat soaking his clothes and his hair, fucking thankful to be out of one the weirder dreams he'd had in a while. God, he hated painkillers. Always gave him whacked-out dreams. 

He managed to kick the blanket off, pulled himself up high enough to rest his head against the side window. He was still in the car, and even though he was slick and gross with sweat, the car was cool, which meant they’d been still long enough for it to have cooled down.

Dean glanced back at him from the front seat. Must have been too dim for him to tell that Sam wasn’t sleeping, because Dean slid out of the car without a word, moving as quietly as was possible when opening doors that weighed a ton. The crunch of gravel told Sam Dean was headed up the driveway; a wave of nostalgia cascaded through him at the sound.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, he squinted, trying to see through the road dust-smeared windshield. "Wow...wow." 

He eased fully upright, taking in the picture of the small house back lit by the setting sun, with an over-grown forsythia on either side of a wide porch. _His_ forsythias, the ones he'd planted as little, brittle twigs back when Dean had first brought him here...and now they crowded the porch stairs. A hot knot welled up in his throat, and his eyes burned as he thumbed at them, struggling to clear tears away. He took a deep, shaky breath to let out slowly. 

"Craftsman cottage, circa 1920s," he whispered. He remembered the last day they’d spent here, remembered how Dean had kissed him on the porch of this house that one last time, that the air had been so chilly, but Dean's mouth had been so warm against his. Sam closed his eyes and remembered pressing Dean back against the door, returning that kiss and how he'd tried to throw every bit of himself into it. The way Dean had looked at him...and how he'd promised, "We'll come back someday. Someday."

Sam opened his eyes, watching as Dean threw the door wide and flipped on the porch light. He hoped with all his heart that now they were back like Dean had promised, they'd come back to _everything_ that they'd had here. Right this moment, though, he was just going to be grateful for what he did have—they were home again, and home was still beautiful, this place where he'd regained his balance, found a reason to keep moving. Where he'd found Dean.

* * *

**  
_Dean_  
**  
The bags were sitting at the bottom of the stairs, ready to go up. He’d stumbled a bit in the dark, his memory a little dim regarding the layout. Stopping before he tripped and broke something, he peered around, wrinkling his nose at the stale air. It smelled of the dust that settled in unused places, of being empty. No big deal. Now that he and Sam were back, it wouldn't be long before it smelled like home again. He swept his hand over the wall beside him, searching for the light switch. Blinked when the lights flared, and breathed a little thanks that the electric was still on. He could hear the heater wheeze and gasp and clang its way back to life, ready to fight the chill in the air. Thought how familiar, and how funny that the sound was so welcome now—it used to irritate the fuck out of him back then.

Grinning, he strolled into the kitchen and flicked on the light above the stove. Looked in the fridge—"Nice.″ It was spotless and nearly empty. It held only two things, and one of them made him grin even wider: a six pack. The other was an open box of baking soda. _Shelly._ He shook his head, laughing softly, a little louder when he noticed a card from a local pizza place tucked into the six pack.

Next, he opened the drawers and cabinets, one by one, and nodded. Shel had done a good job of clearing the place out. All empty and decked out with clean, new liners, each and every one. Seriously a sweetheart, that girl. 

He passed the kitchen table, heading back to the front door, and noticed a sheet of white notebook paper folded into a tent and propped up on it. Opening it, he read.

_'hey Dean! Hey Sam! Welcome home! The extra keys are hanging in the hall closet, and there's beer in the fridge. I'll call later. Love ya Shelly'_

Shelly Miner, their neighbor, and the first "summer romance″ he'd ever had that hadn't ended sad and pathetically. Nope—it had run aground and burst spectacularly into flames. 

Not that Shel wasn’t a great chick, she was the best—it was just that year, he'd found out he was already in love, and had been for a really fucking long time. Actually, it was Shel who’d given him the sorely-needed needed kick in the butt that jump-started his brain, waking him to the fact that Sam was it for him. It had been rough between him and Shel, briefly, but to come out the other side still friends? Shelly was a class act all the way.

Rocking back on his heels, Dean checked the place out. It didn't look bad at all—with all the craziness in his life since, he'd forgotten how nice the house had turned out. Had almost forgotten how much _fun_ fixing up the place had been. He stroked the smooth, cool surface of a cabinet door, pleased at how the paint had held up, as well as happy that she’d kept the colors he'd chosen: soft yellow and gray. The huge, old, 1970s stove was still there, with the oven big enough to cook a whole kindergarten class in. He grimaced to himself. Okay, kind of a gruesome thought, considering how many things they'd dealt with that _would_ happily eat a kindergarten class. 

Cramming Shelly's note into his back pocket, Dean walked over to open the kitchen windows, let some fresh air in the joint before heading back out to collect Sam. Dean looked around, drifting a bit in thought. Yeah, the paint did look good, but some deep-cherry wood cabinets would look even better. Might even see about the possibility of opening up the wall between kitchen, like some distant owner had opened up the dining/living room area….

Dean straightened, brought sharply back on point by the sound of the car door creaking open. He scoffed at himself. How 'bout he got Sam out of the car before he started planning a new kitchen?

"New kitchen...″ Who’d imagine ever having a thought like that? Not him, and certainly not on the very first day he'd spent in this house, him and Sam. He remembered practically dragging Sam through the front door….

_He pulled down the thick brown paper that had been stapled and taped over some of the windows. Light oozed in, reluctantly lighting the cobwebbed rooms. The place was…okay. Nice and normal, the kind of place Sam would like...the place John Winchester picked, and had planned for them to come to, after their work was done. Dean inhaled, chest filling, held it until he was forced to exhale._

_Yeah. Dad hadn't bought this place for himself. Dean figured he'd bought it for him and Sam, and he was going to make a home for Sammy and for him. He was gonna make it a place Sam could catch his breath and for fuck's sake live again. They needed to refresh and refuel, to become human beings again before they could even think about going on. They fucking deserved it._

He'd ripped that paper down and let the light of day in and fuck, he'd almost grabbed his beautiful-mind brother and tossed him back in the car to haul ass outta there. But he hadn't, and it'd turned out to be one of the best decisions he'd ever made. He just wished he'd known what was ahead—they should have just stayed. Should have kept Sammy in this Craftman, Crafter's, Crafts-what-the-fuck-ever- cottage and bolted the doors and never fuckin' left. Yeah, hindsight being twenty-twenty and all.

Dean looked out towards the driveway, and movement towards the back of the car caught his eyes. There went Sam, impatient as always, trying to get out of the car by himself. _'Lemme go get that idiot before he breaks something,_ Dean thought with a chuckle.

Sam, stubborn-ass little fuck he was, had just made it out the back; was leaning against Baby by the time Dean hit the porch. Dean leaped the last few steps, propelled by the sight of Sam weaving back and forth in the slight breeze. Boy was a little green, obviously nauseous from the effort of pulling himself out the car and probably the change in altitude, freakin’ giant Yeti. "Dude, you feelin’ okay?"

"Pretty good," Sam croaked, sounding like he’d gargled gravel, but he was smiling, like, a real, genuine, dimples an' all smile. He paled to white when he tried to push off from the car. Giving a surprised little groan, his body started folding, his chin wobbling in a way Dean was more than familiar with. 

"Oh fuck!" he yelped, and tried to turn Sam away from the car. "Don't barf on her, don't you dare—" It wasn't that he didn’t care about Sam hitting the deck, it was just...well, fuck, he'd just washed and waxed his baby before they left the bunker. 

"Dean! I can't help how I—urrghhh—"

Sam did try and turn away from the car at least, poor guy. Being a totally awesome brother, Dean gave Sam a few minutes to compose himself—and to shuffle away from the gross spot—before grabbing his elbow to lead him into the house.

Slowly, step by step, up the porch, to the front door, into the house...Dean could feel the way Sam went rigid for a moment before relaxing into his hold. 

"It looks good," Sam whispered. 

Sam stood on the threshold, leaning where Dean propped him. He pressed a hand into the small of Sam’s back, feeling him lean into the support as he looked his fill of their house. Dean couldn’t but smooth the hair back from Sam's wide, sweaty forehead as his boy gazed about, a small but genuine smile tilting the corners of his mouth. 

Dean pushed back on a surge of emotion, suddenly having to blink furiously—which had nothing to do with tears, damn it, because he was a motherfucking Winchester and they didn't do that. Well, not very much. 

"Yeah, Sammy," he murmured, eyes on his little brother. "Looking real good."

* * * 

**  
_Sam_  
**  
Dean’s voice echoed in the empty space of the living room, which at the moment contained him and a couple of dust bunnies. Sam rinsed out the glass he’d found in one of the cabinets, and set it down to air-dry on the drainboard. His mouth still tasted acidic, but rinsing would have to do until he could get to his toothbrush in the dufflebag.

Dean came swaggering into the kitchen and leaned on the counter next to Sam. "So, yeah, head’s up, there’s no furniture in any of the rooms at the moment. Shel got rid of most of the stuff we left," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "Like there was something wrong with it. It was lived in, that’s all, good for another couple of years." 

Sam couldn’t hold in a tiny sound of horror at the thought of sticking with what had been decrepit furniture even then. Dean ignored him—of course—and continued. "She took the stuff she bought with her—good, I’d say. Chick’s taste, an’ all."

"Dean. You’re such a – a—" 

Dean held his hand up, stopping Sam in his tracks. "I’m thinking. Rag on me later." He tapped his cell phone against the counter, nibbling at his lower lip in thought. Sam watched the way Dean's white, Hollywood-straight teeth depressed the plush pillow of his bottom lip, remembering how it felt to touch that fever-hot lip when they were deep in it, the way it swelled against his tongue, how hot and smooth it felt when he licked over it….

"Sam?"

"Hunh? Sorry, what?"

He peered at Sam, frowning slightly. "Lookin’ a little flushed, there—say, you're not pissed about Shel getting rid of the furniture, are you?″ 

"Oh _god,_ no, of course not. I - I mean, ah, it wasn’t like the stuff was new.″ Before Dean could respond, he quickly added, "You think she got rid of my desk? And my bookcases?"

Dean looked thoughtful. "She said she put some pieces in the attic, and there's some stuff in Baby's spot, in the garage, I mean."

"So, I guess we need to hit the Goodwill again. Or hey, here’s a thought...how about we check out actual, regular, _furniture stores?″_

"Screw you," Dean said conversationally and headed out to the living room. He hefted their both their duffles even though Sam knew he could lift his own just fine, due to it being lighter than normal without the usual addition of firepower. "I’ve got nothing against furniture stores. In fact, if you’d like to leave off stereotyping me as some kind of Philistine, we have the money and some of us do like to indulge in the occasional creature comforts, you know. I don't know about your narrow ass, but I'd like to keep sleeping on a bed that remembers me. If you’re nice, we’ll get you a bed that remembers you, too.″

"Oooo, _Philistine,"_ Sam smothered a giggle. "I see watching Jeopardy pays off for some of us." 

Dean bit off a laugh, flipped Sam off and trotted up the stairs with their bags, while Sam reran Dean’s words and his amusement died down. He didn't need a reminder of how their shared bed at the bunker had become occasional nights together, which in turn had become a few rushed encounters, and those had eventually dwindled to nothing in separate rooms. 

Sam sighed. As good as it was to be here again, it hurt a little, too. He’d hate to end up overwriting the good memories he had of Dean and him in this place...they were a lifeline to him. He’d known real joy here, learned so much about himself, and what if this lack of a relationship that they'd devolved to ruined that?

Sam took a deep breath, let it out slowly as he grappled for some measure of calm, willing back the murky swamp of emotions that occasionally swept him under. Since their relationship – at least anything outside of being brothers – had deteriorated, there’d been a few times he’d been pulled under. It had been like that at Stanford until Jess found him. There’d been some recurrences after losing her, during spectacularly shitty times. But he weathered them; time after time, he’d come out the other side whole...pretty much. 

He was not going to drown now. Not when they were going to make a home here again. Not when there was a possible chance for more, and better. After all, they’d trudged through a ton of troubles, separately and together, and he was still here with Dean and that fucking counted for a lot. In fact—kicking fatalism in the ass—being back here in the house meant he at least had the freedom to hope. 

He grabbed the one, small, backpack he was allowed to lift and followed Dean upstairs to the bedrooms. His duffle bag was sitting inside the open doorway of the room that had been theirs, Dean’s having been made over into an office when they'd finally admitted that they were sharing a bed. He stepped over the bag, a wave of deep, deep exhaustion taking him. He untied his sleeping bag, shook it flat, then kicked off his boots before crawling in still dressed. He worried briefly about being able to sleep what with the wild tumble of thoughts in his head, but he blinked his eyes once or twice and the next thing he knew, sunlight was bleeding through the slats of the window blinds.

* * * 

Sam yawned, stretched his arms wide, and hissed when his knuckles hit bare floor instead of mattress. For one hot second he was totally lost 'til memory came tumbling back. "Right...″

He rolled upwards, pushed out of the bag, wincing as bone and muscle protested the night on the floor. 

Rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he peered around, he remembered the very first time he’d slept here, waking up in an empty, dreary box of a room, light barely making it in through the grimy windowpanes. His chest ached as he remembered the care Dean had put into making it livable for him. Sam was glad the walls were still the grayish-blue Dean had painted them. Sam couldn’t remember the name of the color now, just remembered that Dean picked because it made him laugh. A jab at Sam, sure, because his brother was a jerk. And loved him. 

He did his best to tamp it down, but hope made his ridiculous heart beat a little faster. 

He shoved the clothes from yesterday into a corner—they were completely gross, kind of crunchy with dried sweat. He’d rather go naked in public than wear them another day. Not like some brothers he could name. With any luck, the washer and dryer were still working. 

Sam dumped his duffle out onto the sleeping bag, sorting through his things before choosing fresh jeans and a t-shirt. Grabbing clean boxers and his dopp kit, he headed towards the bathroom, which if he remembered correctly, had a pretty crummy shower, just about the right height to maybe get his nipples wet if he slouched. Dean had done a great job of remodeling the rest of the place, no doubt—but back then, the bathroom had kind of fallen by the wayside. In Sam’s opinion, nothing was ever going to top the MoL showers. Utilitarian as they were, he missed their green-tiled magnificence whenever they were out on the road. Endless hot water? Perfect water pressure and adjustable shower heads? Hard to beat. 

A quick shower later, he went back out into the hall, dripping a trail of water as he went. Having forgotten to bring a towel in with him, he rooted hopefully through their old linen closet, chuffed in triumph when he found a couple of thin motel towels still inside. Shelly must have overlooked them when she moved in, seeing as how they were crumpled up deep in a back corner. Lucky him. He pressed a towel to his face, remembering Dean rubbing down with one or another purloined crappy motel towel after his marathon showers, the smell of Dean and his prissy shower gel in the humid air.

The memory had Sam’s dick jerking a little in interest. That was surprising—his dick chubbing, and the way he’d managed to lose himself so deeply in memory. He hurried back to his room. All he needed was for Dean to come out and find him half-hard and fondling the towels—hell, screw fondling towels, if Dean found him dripping all over his oak floorboards he’d have a fucking fit. _Home-remodeling sonofa bitch._

* * * 

Showered, teeth clean, and though he'd never let on to Dean, skin moisturized, he followed his nose to the kitchen, currently sending out wonderful waves of scent: fresh coffee, toast, eggs. Sam walked through the doorway into the kitchen, just in time to see Dean setting a small dish of yogurt and fresh cut fruit by his plate of soft scrambled egg whites and—

"Is that turkey bacon?"

"You know how damn hard it is to cook this stuff so it's got some kind of crisp to it?" Dean complained, sitting at his own plate, piled high with a ham and cheese omelet that looked like it’d been stuffed with another ham and cheese omelet.

"You're going to get fat," Sam mumbled around his eggs, smirking inside at Dean's squawk of outrage. He got a lot of enjoyment out of pretending to ignore Dean glaring at him while scarfing down his perfectly seasoned eggs. Dean might not like so-called health food, but he cooked the hell out of it.

Sam reached for the heavy cup of coffee Dean slid over to him, looking forward to a good jolt of caffeine. The cup looked familiar. In fact... "Did you steal cups from the bunker?"

"No! Well, not all of them. Just a few. And maybe some plates...some silverware, good stuff like that is hard to find."

"How would you even know what’s good?″ Sam huffed. "Do you not get the concept of stores and _shopping_ for goods?"

"I _know_ good stuff because we buy shit like that silverware to melt down all the time. Besides, Sam, it’s not like I’m stealing. It’s ours anyway, ain’t it? Birthright and all. And there’s plenty left for Kevin, and Cas...besides. It’s like...I wanted it because I got, y’know, attached to it."

Sam rubbed his thumb across the edge of the heavy mug, and nodded. "Yeah. Okay, I guess I get that." He lifted his head, and gave Dean a smile. "I guess I got attached to it too."

* * * 

After breakfast, he trailed after Dean, watching him scratch notes in a little spiral-bound book he’d produced from somewhere. He tried to explain how Dean could download an app that would let him save notes to his phone, but Dean hit him in the head with his phone instead.

They went from room to room, making notes on what they’d need. Mattresses, bed-frames—though Dean thought the old frames might be back out in the detached garage that he’d had taken such pleasure in the first time they’d lived in the house. 

Dean kept muttering little snatches of sentences, pretty much to himself. Sam was just along for...no real reason he could see, but what the hell, he had no other pressing business and Dean had a tendency to bend over a lot, using his thigh as a desk. That meant those jeans tightening over his ass. It was a view Sam quietly enjoyed.

"Gotta check the attic." Dean grumbled when they peered into Sam’s room. "It’s not fair your room’s bigger than mine,″ he said, and Sam managed to not remind Dean it had been both their room before. He'd bet anything Dean felt it, because he just said, "Rugs," and hurried past the open doorway. 

He elbowed Sam as they walked the hallway. "You know what? We should sand and refinish the floors up here, don’t you think? Work on the bathroom too, no way are we living with these munchkin showers...hey. Is that water in the hallway…?

"No." Sam said and pushed past him to look up the attic stairs. "You coming?" he asked when he saw that Dean was just standing in the hallway, squinting suspiciously at him.

"Yeah, coming. Jeez, I forgot what a killjoy you were last time we did this, ya cranky Bumble."

"House stuff is not fun, and remember you worked me into pneumonia back then?" Sam asked, and cursed himself when Dean’s smile dropped. "I’m kidding, Dean," he said softly and Dean shrugged.

"I know, Sam. Here, hold this for me. You’re gonna stay here and take notes,″ he said, less enthusiastically than he had been. "I’m not having you climb up there and poke around a hot attic. You’re better, but you’re not all the way there yet.″

Sam grabbed Dean’s arm as he went past, holding on until Dean huffed. His eyes softened, and he gave Sam a lingering sort of half hug that lit up Sam’s insides like a shot of Johnnie Walker. He patted Dean’s arm and let him go, and Dean cupped his cheek. "Asshole,″ he said fondly, knowing Sam really was sorry for being kind of a dick. Of course he did, because for good or bad, no one else read him as clearly as his brother. 

Dean patted his cheek, maybe a wee bit harder than he had to, and then swaggered down the hallway, reaching up to pull down to the attic stairs. Sam eyed the little strip of pale, freckled skin that showed as Dean's tee rode up, and smiled.

* * * 

Sam leaned against the hallway wall, tapping the little notebook against his knee while listening to Dean thumping and crawling around in the attic, occasionally cursing, too. "Fuck, it’s dusty up here," he called down. More shuffling and then, "Good news, looks like the desk is up here."

Sam smiled, a warm wave that just might be contentment sweeping through him. He liked the idea of bringing his books inside, of having a home for them. He didn’t have as many with him this time—the bunker was still the safest place to keep specific types of books, which just meant he’d have room for books that were strictly for pleasure. He pictured himself sitting in the backyard reading, while Dean trimmed back the greenery wearing a single layer. No, shirtless, yeah that's it, and gleaming under the sun...more of that freckled skin exposed, his little belly, sweat-glazed and wanting to be traced with fingers, lips, and tongue…

"Yo! You still there or what?"

Sam jumped, accidentally throwing the notebook, watched the pen roll down the hall. _Damn it._ He was just getting to the good part. "Yeah, yeah, was just, ah, daydreaming, I guess."

"Oh. Well, she just shoved the whole office upstairs. Lucky us," he said and Sam noticed that he’d said office and not 'the stuff that’s going in your room’, so did that mean...was Dean considering, maybe, sharing again? He swallowed; barely kept himself from begging a certain Deity who was definitely not paying attention to give him a hand.

* * * 

**  
_Dean_  
**  
Shopping for food with Sam was always good for a laugh—it sure as hell was never boring. There was the interesting argument they’d had in front of the meat case—Sam making a case for meatless meals like some kind of vegan proselytizer, then there was the usual struggle to toss as much sugar and salt in the form of cookies and chips in the cart as he could get away with while Sam tried to sneak them back out and put healthy shit in instead. Like he couldn’t tell the difference between Baked Veggie Chips and Garlic Dill chips, tchah. They agreed on fish, but argued about broiling or frying it. Both of them tossed their favorite flavor of ice-cream in the cart, and eventually, despite their best efforts, they’d gathered the basics for the pantry and plenty for the fridge.

Dean pushed their over-flowing cart towards the checkout and thought how weird it was to be buying so much food at once. Besides buying the real necessities, like pizza and burgers, and occasionally the necessary ingredients for when he wanted to make something a little challenging—like some of the recipes in the ancient cookbook he’d lifted from a shelf in the bunker library—the MoL’s magic pantry had somehow always kept them in basics. Not even Cas knew exactly how the pantry worked, but Charlie said it had something to do with dimensional shifts and pocket universes and Dean had kind of glazed over after _dimensional whosis_ —even Sam had been confused. If a brain like Sam couldn’t get it, than how was he supposed to? Besides, he didn’t need to think about stuff like that. That’s why he had a little brother. 

He watched Sam, a warm wave of affection making him smile at his brother as he fussily picked through the cart,.

"What?" Sam asked when he caught Dean staring.

"Nothing,″ Dean said. "You just looked goofy standing there reading food labels." 

Sam rolled his eyes. "They put the nutritional info there for a reason—yeah, never mind. Let’s get some fruit before we check out."

Dean nodded. "But no bananas. I hate them."

"That’s because you’re stupid," Sam said. "You’ll eat them if they come with a side of ice-cream and fudge sauce, though."

"Who wouldn’t?" Dean elbowed Sam in the side, remembering to hold back a bit at the last minute. Sure, his boy was definitely stronger now—better day by day, in leaps and bounds—thanks to Cas finishing off what that ass Gadreel had promised to do. Still, there was nothing wrong with being careful, no matter how much it annoyed Sam to be treated like he wasn’t one hundred percent. 

Heading to the register took them past the dog food shelves; he tried to walk past, he really did, but he couldn’t help slowing, and finally stopping, to look at the ranked rows of cans and bags. His eyes caught the bright blue bag, the one with the smiling dog on the front. Man, he’d bought a lot of bags of it when….

Sam stopped too, leaning past Dean to run his fingers over the smiling-ass dog on the bag. Dean hated when Sam looked so wistful. Looked just like he did when he was a kid, watching other kids shitting themselves over fuckin’ Christmas, knowing that more than likely, Christmas was going to skip over them once again. 

Still...they were back now, and they’d only given their pup away because hunting was no life for a dog, not a sweet, little shit like Fi, anyway. And if Dean had his way, they were never leaving again. Sam was going to have his house, and his garden, and his dog. Some kind of normal, no matter what he said about not caring about that anymore. Hadn’t giving Fi up been a temporary thing? He was pretty sure he’d told Ford and Donnie that it was a 'just for the meantime’ arrangement. Hell, wasn't like Sam couldn’t argue their case. 

Good old Donnie and Ford Spriggs were—had been—great guys. They’d been the first friends he and Sam had made in the neighborhood, an old gay couple who'd 'been through the struggle’, as Ford used to say. Getting the news that Donnie had lost Ford a few months ago had been fuckin’ rough. Sam had sent a letter, letting Donnie know how much it hurt to hear of Ford’s loss; something full of compassionate, Sam-style stuff because Sam always knew what to say when it came to stuff like that. Dean was completely aware of how worthless he was when it came to comfort. He was only good for cursing shit, smashing shit, and getting drunk as shit. 

It was awful that he couldn’t even view the news as having been straight horrible—it had sparked one of the rare times that he’d reached out to Sam, just...needy, and lonely, and wanting things to be different. For a night, it had been. 

And then like an asshole, he’d had shut Sam down afterwards—to spare him. Right. To spare his own stupid self, to be honest. Too afraid at the time to find out maybe Sam wasn’t looking for things to be like they had been.

_Well, fuck._ Waste of time to mope—they were here now and fitting themselves into their new lives was what he needed to be thinking about, not what a fuck-up he was.

They loaded their groceries into Baby’s nearly empty trunk. Dean idly observed, while dropping a bag of groceries into it, that with most of their weaponry parked back at the bunker, there was plenty of room for a couple of bodies in there now, not just a tiny fuckin’ king of Hell.

He and Sam snickered at the same time—he glanced at Sam and Sam said, "It is weird, right? Not having the trunk full of...things.″ 

Dean snorted. "Things...right.″ and Sam giggled again. He pushed his bags towards the back of the trunk to make room for more. They bumped into each other, shoulder sliding against shoulder and Dean let the warmth he always felt at a touch from Sam fill him. Taking a chance, he lingered—just for a moment. His heart beat kicking up a bit, hopeful, when Sam seemed to press back, make a tiny sound that put Dean in mind of better times.

It was nice, putting away the food. They worked in silence, but it was good silence. Before long, their cabinets were full to bursting, their fridge bulging at the seams with more than the basics—it felt comfortable, kind of like the aftermath of a nice, boring, salt 'n’ burn. 

Safe at home, and Sam taken care of. What could be better? 

Dean went out to sit on the back porch, cracking a well-deserved beer, treating himself to a memory of the first meal he’d cooked here—eggs and bacon on a disposable grill on the back porch. He sat on the top step, remembering how damn prickly Sam had been, still weathering the aftermath of being hounded almost to death by hallucinations of Lucifer. So _angry,_ and so—god, kinda mean, actually. The poor kid had been sick, striking out at everyone, _especially_ at him. Couldn’t blame him at all. Fuck, he’d been so fucking worried about Sam, so scared….

Nowadays, though, Sam was just kind of sad. He was healing pretty good physically, and as far as Dean could tell, dealing well as could be expected with all the levels of shit that’d been done to him. He didn’t think Sam was pissed off at him anymore, not like he didn't have a right to be. These days, seemed like he was just deeply disappointed in Dean, and that was probably worse than Sam wanting to clock him one. Dean held onto a glimmer of hope that dropping out, stepping back from constantly chasing down ‘evil’, would preserve what they had left. 

He wasn’t brave enough to hope it would repair them.

* * * 

Painful pressure on his hip had Dean shifting, then painful pressure on his bladder made him curse. Trying to move sent a mini-spasm rippling down his spine, and then his shoulders chimed in to remind him of those many times he’d dislocated one or the other. Waking up each damn morning brought a laundry-list of aches and pains with it these days, fucked-up reminders of all the shit he’d put his body through down the years, and just how much it hated him for it.

Mornings. Fuck 'em. 

He finally gave in to his bladder’s demand he get the fuck up, and rolled upright, groaning in misery. Screw this sleeping on the floor right in the face. He needed a mattress, for fuck’s sake. This shit might have been just about doable at thirty-three, but thirty-five was calling him out. He eased himself onto his feet, thankful no one could see him clawing at the lone chair in the room for support. Hauling himself to standing, he then waited for his blood to start flowing again. Did some stretches, and then rolled up the sleeping bag and kicked it viciously into the corner. Damn it felt good; he was kind of tempted to kick it again—just 'cause. He shuffled to the bathroom, biting down a groan with each step, finally peed with a little moan of relief. He glanced at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. "Looking a little rough, man,″ he said. "Need some sun.″ Probably needed to work out, too. Maybe he should find a gym—Sam was still finding his way back to peek condition. He’d hate to set him back doing something stupid while they sparred. 

Dean brushed his teeth, humming 'Don’t Fear The Reaper’ while he did and did some low-key planning. Both the master bathroom and that hall bath needed serious revamping. He made mental notes while he rinsed and spit and bared his teeth at himself in the mirror. "Handsome devil,″ he muttered. 

Jerking the curtains open brought that bright fall sunlight flooding in. He admired the way the light brought out the color of the walls— _Salt Glaze,_ if he remembered correctly. He’d basically picked it because he’d thought the name was so damn funny, but it was a genuinely nice color. Sam’s too. The name had been...what was it? Oh, yeah... _Pensive Sky._ Still made him giggle. Still suited Sam to a tee.

The distant sound of cars accompanied the cool morning breeze flowing through the windows he'd opened a crack before going to bed last night. As much as he considered the bunker luxurious compared to the endless stream of questionable motel rooms they’d camped out in over the long years, he’d always missed waking to sunlight and non-recycled air. The ability to lean out a window and smell the air, feel it flow over his skin, and let the sun in was luxury, too, a real pleasure. He leaned elbows on the sill and let it all soak in.

When he straightened up, his back complained some, but much less than when he first awoke. The spasm made him think of Sam with his long self sacked out in that crummy bag on the hard-ass floor, and Dean hoped he’d managed some decent sleep. He liked the idea of Sam crammed in that room less and less. And shoving the desk and the bookcases back in would just make it smaller yet. 

"He can’t,″ Dean muttered. "That’s just—stupid.″ Okay. New mission. He’d figure out some way to talk Sam into sharing one bedroom with him again...and screw the whole fuckin’ 'separate beds’ thing. If he wanted Sam back in his bed, he’d have to just…

Dean flailed his arms around. Just what? He had no fuckin’ idea how to ask. Didn’t know if he dared to ask. 

No, screw that. New mission, new attitude. He fucking dared. Yeah, he dared. He wasn’t afraid of Sam, no way. In fact, Sam was probably just waiting for him to ask. 

Dean laughed, dry and bitter. 

"Sure. Keep telling yourself that. After all this shit, I bet Sam’s just holding his breath waiting for you.″ 

Didn’t matter though. He’d made up his mind. He was either going to fix things with Sam, or Sam was going to have to tell him point blank there was no chance of there ever being a _them_ again. 

He’d start the mission with checking on Sam before making breakfast.

Dean padded across the hall and tapped at Sam’s door, tried the knob when he got no answer. Peeking in with a quiet, "Sam?" he stepped inside. 

Sunlight leaked in through the wonky slats of the window blinds, painting stripes of light across a sleeping Sam. He was twisted up in that ancient sleeping bag of his, hands curled tight into fists, and crammed under his cheek. Even in sleep his face was drawn tight in a frown. Little snores whistled in and out, his breath fluttering the stray bits of hair falling around his face.

He looked cute, but Dean’s smile slid into a frown as he took note how tense his brother was. On the other hand, Sam's pallor was much, much less—his skin was almost back to the same creamy tan it’d been as a boy. He was filling out again, and that was good. Cheekbones not so sharp now, jaw not looking so much like something you could cut yourself on. The lines around his eyes might be more defined, little worn commas bracketing his lips, but they were that delicate, pink cupid’s bow again. Dean’s fingers twitched, wanting to be tracing that bow.

Sam suddenly exhaled, a little moan leaking out with it, and Dean wanted to touch so bad, but not now. Not yet.

Sam’s eyes fluttered; he was making the snuffling noises that Dean knew meant he was waking, so he took a step back, and waited for Sam to come fully awake. Eyes still closed, a soft, small, smile curled that cupid’s bow even more. "Dean...″ Sam murmured. 

Dean was about to answer him when Sam’s eyes flew open. He jerked upright, confusion clouding his eyes. 

"What? Dean? What’s...you okay? Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sure was just coming to see if you...wanted breakfast?"

"Oo-kayy," he drawled, eyeing Dean like his head was about to fly off. "Yeah, thanks..." He broke off with a gasp, both hands going to the small of his back. Dean knew just what he was feeling. "Fuck. Is it me, or are these sleeping bags thinner every year?"

"Yes. We need beds. I’m not putting myself through that shit another night and neither are you. You’re too damn old to sleep on the floor."

Sam yawned, groaned, licked his lips – a quick little swipe of the tip of his tongue, but it drew Dean’s eyes like a laser. 

"Dude, I’m thirty-one.″ Sam growled. "That’s _not_ fucking old."

"Yeah, whatever you need to tell yourself, Grandpa." Dean snickered and reached his hand down, grappling for Sam’s.  
Sam tried to swat his hand away, but Dean gripped him tight and then pulled him upright—right into his chest. "You look good, Sammy. Really good. Feeling better?" 

He smiled, eyes on Sam’s and watched them warm. A wave of pink rushed over his cheeks, Sam's free hand came up and after a second, landed on Dean’s hip, tentatively at first, and then, solidly. The warmth bled into Dean’s skin...filled his chest. 

"Yeah, I do...feel better, I mean." 

Dean took a chance, and reached up, cupped Sam’s blush-warm cheek for a nanosecond before patting him softly. "Okay. C’mon. I’m gonna make breakfast, and you’re doing the cleaning-up."

* * * 

**  
_Sam_  
**  
Making breakfast together was a quiet affair; they worked around each other effortlessly, comfortably, their conversation limited to "Hand me the butter, want garlic or no, don’t be stingy with the grounds, I want coffee, not water... "

It was good. Sam felt like life was finally slowing down enough to let them breathe. Dean passed him a plate, ruffling his hair as he moved past him back to his chair, chuckling as Sam smacked his hand away, and it was better than good.

Halfway through breakfast, as though they’d been talking about it all along, Dean said, "Yeah, so, moving the office stuff back downstairs shouldn’t take that long.″

Sam stopped mid-chew. "Random, but okay. You know, putting all that stuff back is going to make that room feel cramped. What d’you think about putting the bookcases in the hall?”

Dean nodded, said, ″Or we could just...″ he trailed off; Sam watched him draw the tines of his fork through his over-easy eggs, painting yellow swirls on his stolen MoL plate. Sam's heart fluttered, racing a bit while he waited for Dean to stop painting the crockery with yolk and spit it out. Bit his lip to keep from shouting _what, we could just what?_

Dean looked up and flinched—Sam wondered briefly what it was Dean saw, his eyes searching Sam’s...he finally gave a quick nod, and said, slowly, carefully, "Or we could just invest in a king...redo the office. We could share a dresser, I mean, neither one of us has a ton of clothes….″

"Well, maybe not me, but you do manage to somehow always have the 'appropriate ensemble’ when we work 'undercover’″ Sam said, making air quotes a la Cas. "I’m certainly not judging,″ Sam murmured, and smirked at Dean’s frown. 

″Shut up, Dad taught us to be prepared. Anyway, 'm just putting that out there,″ he muttered and went back to murdering his eggs. 

″Sounds like a very good plan,″ Sam said, trying for nonchalant, but Dean brightened, waggled his eyebrows, and finally put his eggs out of their misery. Sam couldn’t help but smile. Back together...in this at least. Sharing a bed didn’t automatically mean resuming everything, but it was a damn good _step one_ in his plan.

* * * 

A couple of sweaty, dusty hours later—made longer by cussing each other out and dodging elbows—Sam’s desk and bookcases were back downstairs, along with a twin mattress that Dean said they could put to good use, maybe turn it into a daybed and have an office-slash-guestroom. Sam had just nodded, grinning to himself despite being disgustingly sweaty and plastered with dust—Dean in full-on-nesting mode was a hoot, kind of cute even.

After a quick lunch together, Sam headed outside, needing a little break from Handyman Dean. He wandered around the backyard, remembering how the lawn had tried to kill him on their first day there with rusty, old, tetanus-covered farm implements, sneakily tucked down in the too-high grass, along with the woodchuck holes waiting for him to sink in and break an ankle. They’d put some hard work into cleaning that yard up, and it had paid off. The lone Fourth of July party they’d had there, with the cookout and the neighbors filling the yard, was a special memory for Sam. It’d been the taste of normal he’d thought he’d always wanted, but more importantly, it’d led to Dean and him having their first kiss, sprawled against the car, sky full of stars overhead, and man...they’d been stupid as fuck. That first kiss was a shock—bit of a let down, actually—oh, but then the second, and the third, and every one of them after had been everything, just... _everything._

Dean whistled for him from the garage, flashed a come-here sign, so Sam waded back through the slightly-overgrown grass. If the mower was still in there, maybe he'd have a go at it later. 

Inside, the garage was dim, but Dean threw open the rear doors to let light in, talking to Sam as he did so. ″We got plenty of room to park Baby again. There were just a couple of boxes left, not much, really. And some bed frames. No kings, though. Figure we just get rid of the frames, we don’t need them 'xcept for the twin—we can use that one for the office daybed.″

Sam knelt beside a box, opening it to find "A dented pot...coupla motel towels, a really nasty sheet...what in the world did you save it for? Ugh, no, don’t tell me. Well, this is basically a load of crap.″ He glanced up at Dean. ″We’ll need to replace all these things—unless you stole the bunker’s linens, too?″

_″Liiii-nens.″_ Dean mocked Sam, assuming a girly voice that no one in real life ever had. ″No, I just took a set of towels. Maybe two. And some robes...a pair of slippers. Or two. Jeez, you act like I tossed the place before I left. And are you really gonna fight me on those Turkish towels?″

"Are you kidding? I could have used those damn towels this morning.″ Sam laughed. Those towels were a dream, thick as mattresses and actually large enough to cover him. No, he really wasn't going to argue. 

″I thought not. So hey, I'm going to give Shel a call, see what’s up. And talk to her about Fi. Unless you need some help setting stuff up to the office?″

Sam jerked his attention from the box to his brother. "Yeah? Nah, I got this. Go on, call her, tell her I said hi. Invite her to dinner. Get our dog back,″ he said, and couldn’t help from grinning. 

Dean matched him, just as happy as Sam at the idea of getting Fidus back home. "Okay, then.″ 

He strolled out of the garage, all concentration on his phone. Sam watched his rolling walk, the way his jeans tightened over his ass with each step, and reminded himself that it had been nearly a year since he’d had anything like sex, and while he wasn't a teenager anymore, this fascination with Dean's ass was probably hormonal, and—yeah, he wasn’t buying a fucking word he tried to tell himself. 

He pulled himself out of fantasies just in time to hear Dean’s cheerful, _″Hey Shel!″_ ….

After a few minutes, Dean hung his head around the edge of the door, big grin lighting up his face. "Hey, I’m headed out now—sure you don’t wanna come with?″ 

Sam looked up at him for a long, heavy minute, swiped his arm over his face, pushing sweat-damp hair away. "Eh. I think I'm just going to lie down. Some old guy press-ganged me into work today and it wore me out.″

"Fuck you, press-ganged,″ Dean laughed. "But no, lying down’s a great idea. You rest, I’ll give you a call on my way back, hopefully with good news about Fi. Say, how 'bout we order out, Italian or something.″ 

"Dean, we just filled the cabinets,″ Sam scolded while pulling himself upright. He dusted off his knees, trying to look stern, but Dean just smirked at him. He knew he’d hooked Sam at _Italian_ —he loved a good antipasto. 

"C’mon, you don’t wanna cook, and I'm not cooking.″ His voice went wheedling—actually, it went sort of seductive: soft, kind of intimate—"You know you want it, a little crispy bread, all soaked and dripping with butter with a tease of garlic, some pieces of creamy, smooth cheese and a good, dry, hard, salami...″

"Oh, my god, shut up! Go, go already, Guy Fieri!″ And even though he knew that there was nothing between Shelly and Dean—had never really been, not that way—his heart clenched when Dean bounded towards the car without a bit of hesitation and barely a wave _so long._


	3. Chapter 3

  
**_Dean_**  
Baby sailed down the driveway and hit the road like a queen. She sounded happy, he knew she looked sharp; bright and shiny as a treasure hoard. He spun the wheel and turned her nose towards the end of the cul de sac; he’d be at Shel’s front door in a few minutes, and sure, he could have walked it, but Baby needed a little air—and he wasn’t above showing her off.

Dean messed with the cassette controls, fishing blindly into his box of tapes. Something felt off, something was prickling him and keeping him from enjoying the mild afternoon and the purr of the car on the road. He glanced towards the passenger side and it hit him-- "Fuuu-uck.’’

Going off to visit with someone he used to have sex with was kind of unsettling, like getting unwanted echoes of a long-ago life. It felt like a lifetime gone past, what with all the shit they’d been hit with between the day they’d left here, and now that they were back. His thoughts skittered around like beads of water on hot skillet—the little anticipation he felt at the thought of seeing Shel again fought with the feeling he should be home working on his unresolved, six foot-five issues. 

Baby growled to a stop outside of a neat, two-story house. Shelly was already outside when he pulled up, sitting on the porch and sporting a smile almost as fresh and bright as his baby. Had to admit, it she was a sight to see. Hot as hell, togged out in a tight t-shirt and a killer pair of shorts—it was hard to forget how good she filled out a pair of shorts, fucking legs forever and an ass like a peach. 

She rolled her eyes at his over-the-top, lecherous grin. When he opened the car door, she planted her hands on her hips and shouted, "You can roll that tongue up and put it right back where it belongs!″ 

"That’s my girl!″ he laughed. "Lookin’ good, Sugar!″ Holding his arms wide, he caught her up in a hug when she leaped at him. He swung her off her feet and in a half circle before letting her go with a quick squeeze. 

She punched his shoulder, laughing, then tipped her head back to kiss his cheek. "You never change, Dean. Still ridiculously good looking.″

"Yeah, I don't see how,″ he snorted, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks go warm. "You, though, you don’t look like a minute’s passed since last I saw you, Gorgeous. How’s things—good, I hope?″

"Oh, absolutely. I’m gainfully employed—little law firm downtown, but I’m moving on soon, bigger and better things—oh, and Ralph picked up his family and moved the next town over, which is why I left your house—I'm renting-to-own his house. Loving it, too.″

"Wow. Lot of changes, lady, but damn, I'm glad for you. Thanks for the great job takin’ care of the house for me and Sam. We appreciate it.″ 

"How is that long, tall drink of hotness anyway? You guys...″ Shelly stumbled to a stop, and swept Dean up and down with a narrow-eyed gaze before hitting him in the chest with a surprisingly hard fist. "What the fuck did you do, Anderson? How'd you fuck up the best relationship ever?″

"What?″ It took Dean a few seconds to register Anderson—sloppy, sloppy, he thought. And then it _also_ registered that she just called him a fuck-up and how did she know? "What makes you think I screwed up? I mean, screwed up what?″ 

"Oh please.″ She rolled her eyes again, and shook her head. "Like I can’t read you like a tawdry romance novel. Get your ass inside. I see we have some talking to do.″

″Jesus,″ Dean grumbled, following her up the porch step and into the house. "Where you always so damn bossy? I don’t remember you being this bossy. You and Sam are practically fuckin’ twins when it comes to that, damn...″ 

He stopped in her tidy little living room, eyeing the tall cups, steaming gently, already on the table and an open bag of store brand sugar cookies—his favorite. He sat when she waved at the couch, sighing as he sank down into it a little. She leaned back, crossing her arms, and fixed him with a glare. She was ready to hear a story. "So! Where’s good ol’ Fi?″ he asked brightly, and she snorted, looking down her nose at him. 

"Fi’s visiting his grandpa and is probably eating sirloin off a porcelain plate as we speak—we’ll get to him in a second. He’s just fine. Fidus, I mean. Donnie’s doing okay too. Now, tell me _what happened,_ you doofus with your crappy attempt at distracting me.″

"Okay,″ Dean began. "There's a chance—″ 

She coughed, not even half as subtle as she thought she was, and Dean started over. "Okay, so yeah, I might have...well, no, I definitely messed up. But I had a good reason for it.

See, when we left here, it was like leaving a fairy-tale, like we’d been living in some magic bubble that burst when we were back...ah, back where we started. I had a lot of time to think about Sam and me, like, how much better Sam could do than me, and I realized how I was holding him back. I was hiding him, hiding what we had. I was so wrapped up in not wanting people to know...there are folks who’ve known us all our lives and that was never who we were before, and I didn’t, I _couldn't_ reveal myself or Sam like that. I-I thought it was best for Sam, too but he just...″ 

Dean stopped, took a deep breath, and thought about what had happened and why and muttered, mostly to himself, "Fuck, he just withered, didn't he?″

Shelly shook her head. "I can see you haven't changed much. You're an idiot, Dean. I told you that back then, and I'm telling you again. You're an idiot. and the only one who can’t see that Sam would do anything for you, hell, throw himself into a lake of fire to save your ass.″

Dean winced. "No, yeah...he would. That’s something I know without a doubt, actually.″ 

She gave him an odd look before going on. "Sam will forgive you, because that’s what he does. He’s not capable of doing anything else, I think. Poor fuck.″

"I don’t know...″ Dean grabbed the cup and gulped the coffee. He jerked, let out a low, "Whoooaa,″ and coughed. "Dude, I think I detect a little coffee in your booze.″

"Damn, I knew I was going light on the whiskey. So when you get home, grovel. Fucking get past yourself. It’s not going to be that hard to do.″

"You’d be surprised.″ Dean shook his head. "No, I know you’re right. It’s just...″ He sighed. "Really, I do hold Sam back. He really could do better.″

"Has he said that? Has he told you he doesn't want you?″

Dean shook his head. "No. Not in so many words. But...I’ve done things, said things...you don't know what I've done to him, Shel.″

"I can't imagine you doing anything he couldn't forgive—" She stopped, her face a mask of growing horror—"Fuck, did you... _cheat_ on him?″

"Shelly! Of course not!″ Dean yelped. "I would never!″ Not since he’d made a decision, and made a commitment. Sam was it, until he told Dean in plain English that they were done. _Suspecting_ Sam was done with him wasn’t enough for Dean to break his personal vows.

"Then forgiveness is there, Dean. You might have to work a bit, but you can do it. Right? Right?″

Dean scrubbed at his face irritably, then looked at her between his fingers. Sighing, he said, "Yeah, maybe...I just want it to be easier, y’know? Just wanna click my fingers and – and have everything be okay, without me having to talk and probably fuck it up even worse. Ugh. Why can’t it be like it was?″ _Before all the stupidity and shitstorms and failures..._

"Well, you guys aren't the same, are you? People change, all the time, big changes or little changes; get older, in some cases, get smarter...but I firmly believe that love is love is love. Get your man, Dean.″ She stopped, took a breath and Dean noticed her cheeks go pink. "I did,″ she said.

"You did? Fantastic!″ He narrowed his eyes at her, taking in her overly-casual expression, that pink tinge on her cheeks that went darker as he stared. ″Wait a damn minute...did you…″ She grinned weakly, and Dean cursed. "Howard? But he’s—you guys are—it didn’t work the first—and he’s way older than you too!″

"First of all, you massive dick, he's not that much older than me, and secondly, you got a nerve, Buddy. You're not exactly a spring chicken, yourself.″

"What’dyamean, ain’t me staring at the shaky side of forty.″

Shel silently eyed him, lips pursed slightly as she looked him up and down. 

"Okay!″ Dean he his hands up. "Whatever! Congratulations! You happy?″

"Fucking very happy.″ 

"’M only 35,″ Dean muttered as he peered around the living room, like he was expecting the man in question to leap out of the woodwork any second. "He live here?″

"Not yet. But when I own it, he's gonna be with me. And fucking get over that he tried to pick Sam up. It was a long time ago, deal with it, you jealous goober.″

"Okay, okay,″ Dean sighed. "I know I don’t have any business feelin’ any kind of way about you and him, or giving advice. Just make sure it’s on your terms.″

"What do _you_ think?″ she laughed, and Dean laughed right along with her. 

"I know. Well good for you, babe. He’s not a bad guy, and I’m glad you’re happy.″

"And you will be, too. Talk to him, Dean. It’s gonna be worlds easier than you imagine.″

Sam, she meant. He thought maybe there was some possibility of fixing things...at least getting Sam to listen. He’d been pretty easy to convince about sharing beds, smiling about it even—but that wasn’t really out of the norm for them, and it didn’t mean...it might mean nothing. But it might mean something. He’d take it up again after dinner...or maybe before they went to sleep. Or at breakfast tomorrow.

He took a cautious sip of the now lukewarm coffee-flavored whiskey. "So, what’s happening in the neighborhood?″

* * * 

About an hour later, Dean was back home, looking thoughtful. He crossed the kitchen, grabbed a chair from the table and swung it around, straddling the seat and resting his arms on the back. ″Shelly just broke everything down for me,″ he said. ″Donnie’s leaving the neighborhood, moving into one of those senior places. Already there, actually, just taking time about moving stuff out of the house since it’s not on the market yet.″

″Ah man,really? ″ Sam turned from the cabinet they’d stacked the canned goods in, said, " I’d rather live in the car than one of those places.″ 

″Right?″ Dean said, a grimace of disgust twisting his face. ″Anyway, the good news about that is, she’s had Fi, has had him for a while, even though he’s at Donnie’s at the moment. She’d planned on keeping him, but if we want him, she’s not standing in our way. Bad news, ol’ Panda’s gone. I kinda liked that big, pudgy, walkin’ haystack.″

″Oh, Buddy must’ve been devastated.″ Sam set a couple of cans of soup on the counter, then grabbed a loaf of bread from the box. Dean sighed inside. Grilled cheese sandwiches and soup...he really was going to have to teach Sam to cook. 

″Her nephew? Yeah, he loved that mutt. Speaking of Buddy, the little shit’s a freshman in high school now. Can’t believe it...we weren’t even gone that long really, but so much changed.″

Sam scraped at a sticky spot on the counter. ″Yeah. Lot’s changed.″ He didn’t meet Dean’s eyes, and Dean didn’t say anything. He stood, flipped the chair back to the table, and patted Sam's shoulder. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened...he left the room, feeling Sam's eyes on his back. _Tomorrow. Swear to gawd, tomorrow._

* * * 

The next day, they took the patio furniture Shel had stashed in the garage and set it back on the porch. It looked good. Slowly but surely, the house was looking more like home. Dean eyed the bushes now nearly overgrowing the sides of the porch. Time to trim them back, and clean out Sam’s garden beds, and...fuck. He guessed there was a lot of time to do all that.

He walked around the rear of the house, to where Baby sat parked in the garage. She had some stuff in the trunk that should come out: some simple supplies—a few jars of herbs, salt of course, and accelerants—and a box Sam had shoved in before they left. Dean also took out the locked box of what few weapons he figured they’d need, along with some things he just couldn’t left go: his Colt, Sam’s Taurus, Ruby’s knife, an angel blade which had become an all purpose kind of weapon to them, a scimitar and a sword from the bunker, both certified non-magical, along with some odds and ends that were. 

He flipped open the lid on Sam’s box and found a few research books, but nowhere as many as he figured Sam would bring, underneath those were a few novels, probably some favorites of Sam’s. He wondered when the kid had even had time the last few years to collect any non-magical books...he looked closer. Hunh. There were also few time-worn journals stuck in-between the books as well, hunters journals, some looking older than their grandfather’s time. He wondered why Sam grabbed them but, ″Such a nerd,″ he muttered out loud. Of course he’d be interested. He shut the box back up and carried it to the house. 

He managed to talk Sam into heading into town, telling him they’d pick up supplies for their soon-to-be-recovered dog, and check out what had changed over the last two years. Sam argued that not much could have changed, but with a huge air of humoring his weirdo brother, he agreed to go. Dean tried to keep upbeat chatter going as they walked, but he could see that Sam was quiet—a bit too quiet. He kept giving Dean side-eyes, and opening his mouth like he was about to speak—but no. Just a lot of soft throat clearing, some jittering, an aborted hand wave or two. 

Dean knew what Sam was waffling about, and he was sure that they were in the same page, waffle-wise. Dean was certain—like ninety per cent sure—that fixing them might be easier than he’d originally thought. It just needed him opening his mouth and asking. But...what if he was wrong? If he was wrong, where did they go from there?

* * * 

**  
**  
_Sam_  
  
Sam couldn’t remember the last time they’d walked together for no other reason than to walk. It was nice—no hurry, just him and Dean comfortable together. The sunlight reflecting from cars on the street was a bit of a bother, making Sam wince. But the sun was also chasing the chill from the air, and it felt good. He was warm, felt like for the first time in a long time. He sucked in a deep breath, glad he could do that without feeling like the air was clawing its way down his throat, that he could take Fidus jumping into his lap and not wanting to scream. The Trials had slipped their talons out of him, and Cas had finished what Gadreel had started. Sam was good. Better than good. He glanced over at Dean, watched the way the sun lit his hair, and his eyes and smoothed out the little lines in his face, and god damn the sun loved his brother, wrapped itself around him the way Sam wanted to and made him glow.

Sam pulled his attention away from his brother to look around his neighborhood. He was surprised to note the cul de sac had undergone quite a few changes since they’d left. 

A 'for sale’ sign with a red 'sold’ banner pasted across it sat in the middle of George and Minnie's front yard; a silver van was parked in the drive, and a couple of little kids were running in screaming circles around the property. Dean frowned, shook his head, probably mourning George's roses for him because they sure as hell were going to be flattened under that lot. 

According to the neighborhood news—or Shelly—they were in a nice place somewhere, some retirement place, maybe the same one Donnie was moving into. Maybe George would still have roses to care for there. Sam hoped so. 

"Charlie, get the heck out of there!"

Some little kid—Charlie, he guessed, came barreling out of the shrubbery like he’d been shot from a canon. Freckles, blonde hair standing up all over, leaves stuck to him here and there like he’d just come back from the fae’s court.

"Man, dude—" Sam elbowed Dean. "There's a mini-version of you."

"Shut the fuck up. I hope they don't fuck up George's gardens," Dean groused, but Sam shook his head and laughed. 

"I doubt they'd mind. Minnie would have loved having a rambunctious little kid around."

"Hummpf." Dena eyeballed the little family suspiciously as they passed, getting the stink-eye right back from Charlie and his tribe.

* * * 

The day was so nice, and neither of them were in any kind of a hurry to get back to Dean’s endless projects, so they ended up walking both ends of the road out of nostalgia, and eventually headed into the little town and stopped at the cafe, snagging coffee and donuts before walking on. They saw that old Herman's place had become someone else’s too, from the looks of it, had been someone else’s for a while. Fresh paint and a hopeful garden announced that fact.

Nice, Sam thought, not feeling any particular way about the evidence that Herman was gone. The man had never socialized with the neighborhood. Sam had always had the feeling that the street was a little too...colorful for the old guy. He knew that Margie and Frankie, and their gorgeous kids, never had much to do with him and he’d been absent at Donnie and Ford’s Annual Thanksgiving dessert-a-thon. 

A voice called out, "No it’s not! Oh my god, yes it is! Sam Smith, Dean Anderson—″ Speaking of Margie, she was on Sam before he knew what was happening. She’d have made a good supernatural, for sure, fast and quiet. Sam sputtered out surprised laughter as she gripped him in a shockingly strong arms—almost cracked his ribs greeting him. 

She was still gorgeous: cocoa-brown skin, eyes nearly as green as Dean’s, and brick-red hair making her a knock-out, and though he'd never, ever let on in the slightest to Dean, he'd always felt a little prick of jealousy whenever Dean talked to her. She was just Dean’s flavor—one of his flavors, anyway. 

The kids hung back as their mother made a fuss over two tall guys who were strangers to them, not really remembering them, well, except the oldest, a boy about ten, who hesitantly asked Sam if he was the giant that had flung them around the yard that one fourth of July. 

"Yeah,″ Sam said. "That was me.″

The boy beamed. "Oh, I always remembered that 'cause we had so much fun. Maybe we can do it again?″ 

"Chris!″

Margie went to shush him, but Dean held up his hand, breaking in to the conversation. "Count on it, dude. Hot dogs and chips and watermelon and crazy, giant yetis tossing you all around the yard.″ 

The boy, Chris, grinned even wider, and the other boys all stared open-mouthed, impressed beyond belief that their brother was friends with a giant.

If Margie’s greeting had been an ego-boost, Frank’s went one better. The man appeared to be besides himself with joy when he caught sight of Dean.

"Dean-fucking-Anderson!" He threw his arms around Dean and pulled him off his feet, like he weighed nothing. Frank, pale, blue-eyed, heavy with muscle and fireplug shaped, probably could have swung Dean around with one hand while drinking a beer with the other. Sam laughed at the shocked, semi-horrified look on Dean’s face. He knew himself—Dean was definitely not a light-weight. 

Margie reached past Dean and smacked Frank’s head, "Language 'round the kids."

"Ow,″ Frank grumbled, rubbing his head and eyeing his kids. "Why’re you worried about language when they see ya abusin’ their old man? 'Sides, they wouldn't dare curse." 

The boys all shook their heads emphatically, glancing at their mother. "Hell, no," Chris muttered under his breath. 

Dean bit his lip, trying hard not to laugh, and Sam palmed his mouth, pretending to scratch his lip so Margie wouldn't catch him smiling either. 

It was great that they were still there in the cul de sac. Margie promised to bring them a pie soon, and some neighborhood gossip, both of which appealed to Dean. They herded the boys into the van, and while Frank and Dean were making some elaborate plans for a guys’ night out, Margie grabbed Sam’s elbow. 

"Sam, darlin’, are you guys back to stay?" she asked and Sam hesitated. He glanced towards Dean, deep in conversation with Frank, took in his relaxed body language, the way his eyes sparkled as he laughed—really laughed—and shrugged.

"I hope so,″ he said quietly, eyes still locked on Dean. 

The worried look Margie sported softened. She patted him on the arm. "Shelly might have mentioned sort of vaguely, in passing, that you and Dean...Sam, you okay?"

Sam's traitorous eyes welled up. "I'm good...better, Margie. I'm a lot better now." 

She didn't ask, she didn't offer pointless words of advice. She just squeezed his hand, and called for her husband. Right before they drove off, she leaned out the window and said, "Anytime, Sam," she said and he nodded, understood what she meant. Dean watched the whole little exchange—Sam could feel it. 

He turned to his brother and said, "Don't worry. It's good. We’re good.″ Dean just nodded and they walked on.

* * * 

After dinner that night, they washed up and played cards for a bit, a game that ended when Dean threw all the cards at Sam, and claimed it was part of the game.

″Only babies play 52 pick-up, Dean,″ Sam snarled, scooting the cards back into a pile, hunting down the ones that had flown off due to the energetic throw.

"And that's a damn shame,″ Dean said, "because there's nothing like the look on you face to make a body feel good.″

Sam turned from his idiotic brother, bending over to get a card that had slid under a cabinet, and felt...he just knew Dean was staring at his ass, he was sure of it. A warm ripple went up his back, and he took his time about getting back up. When he turned back to the table, Dean was flushed, and staring at the TV. 

″Here,″ Sam said and dropped the deck in front of him. ″I’m going to bed. We getting Fidus together tomorrow?″

″Of course, he’ll be lookig for the both of us. I'll be up in a minute.″

Dean came up and went straight into their bathroom. Sam lay in bed and listened to the creak of the pipes as Dean turned the shower on. He knew his brother’s routine exactly—turn on the shower, obsess over his teeth, frown at himself, poke at wrinkles and lines, and then get in the shower—he was almost asleep before Dean came out again and lay down with him.

Sam was drifting comfortably in the place near sleep, but floated to the surface when he felt fingers, Dean’s fingers, combing through his hair. It wasn’t a dream, thank god. This was a perfect moment to make a move, so he took a chance, snuggled back against Dean. He held his breath, as first Dean’s hand, and then Dean’s arm, slowly crept around his waist. A little spark of anger flashed through the warmth that filled him, anger that Dean didn't have the guts to do this when Sam was awake. Small steps, he reminded himself, small steps...he let himself fall deeper, enjoying touch that he’d missed so much.

Dean’s thumb moved gently, non-stop; he rubbed soft swirls and circles against Sam’s skin, over his belly where his t-shirt rode up. Slow, thoughtful, strokes that sent shivers tumbling through him, goosebumps racing over his skin. Dean’s breath on the nape of his neck warmed him, ruffled his hair. He felt Dean inch closer, closer, than finally, he felt the soft, barely-there kiss Dean pressed into the back of his neck. Drifting in the feel of that gentle touch, Sam felt his spirit soar. 

Dean was almost home again. Sam drifted deeper, into dreams of Dean and Fidus and a happy home.

* * * 

″Hey, guys!″

Shelly was out the door the moment the moment the doors on the car closed, streaked across the porch and didn’t even hesitate before launching herself at Dean, nearly knocking him over. He caught her, the momentum swinging them both around so that she was facing Sam, grinning at him over Dean's shoulder. The grin she gave Sam was so full of joy that Sam was startled for second, before grinning back. 

She looked great, and it really was good to see her. He did his best to ignore the little pang that shot through him at the sight of her resting on Dean, and also resisted timing how long the hug went on. Finally, Dean peeled her off and set her down. 

″Shel. How’s your day been?″

″Good, Dean, but so much better now that you two are here.″ She reached out to Sam, "It’s so damn good to see you again, Sam. Come in, you guys, come in!″

″Thanks,″ Sam echoed Dean, but let his brother drive the conversation. Dean looped his arm over her shoulder and steered her back up the porch. ″So, Miz Shelly Miner, how’s being a homeowner working for you?″

″Well, Mr. Dean Anderson, it’s fantastic, and it’s a pain in the ass. So much work, but you know that! Ralph—you remember my brother—he’s been a big help with making it my own place, you know, plus explaining the mystery that is plumbing, and oh my fucking god, _electricity,_ it’s like some arcane, killer spell work, and—″ 

Dean turned to Sam and flashed him a grin and a wink. Shelly caught it and blushed. ″Shut up. Yeah, I’m still a Babylonian. You love that I am, though,″ she laughed and Dean laughed with her. 

″Yeah, true, Shel, true.″

Sam fought an urge to pinch himself. He had no reason for the slightest tinge of jealousy, none at all. He knew Shelly and Dean were a relationship that had actually never been. In fact, Shelly had been the one to get Dean to realize where his heart lay. If anything, he owed Shelly a lot. So it was ridiculous to want to shove her out of the way and lay a claim all over Dean. Dean was already his. It was just...taking a little longer for the idiot to get that there was no one else he’d rather be with. _Patience_ he told himself again. Closer and closer all the time. He glanced at Dean. _Idiot._

″So, where’s the hunky guy supposed to be moving in with you here?″

Sam could practically feel his ears swivel towards Dean. He glanced up at Shelly and his brother practically skipping hand in hand up the porch stairs. 

″Shut up.″ She shoved him, hard enough to stagger him., and Sam bit down a laugh at Dean’s outraged bleat. ″Howard was a big help to me, and he’s the one who convinced me to finish school, y’know.″

″Howard’s no fool,″ Dean said, jumping out of reach. "Now he’s gonna get all his legal help for free.″

Sam stopped, mouth dropped. ″Howard? Howard, who owns the lawn mower repair place? Howard, who hit on me, that one?″

Dean turned to Sam, a little frown line creasing his forehead. ″Yeah...that one. Why?″

"Oh, no reason, just...ah. Settling down. You and him, together. That’s just...y’know, surprising because he’s...″ _practically a ringer for Dean,_ Sam was smart enough not to say. "He’s...a nice guy. Congratulations? I’m glad for you,″ he finished a little weakly.

Shelly tilted her head, giving Sam a long, thorough look before cracking a sideways smile. "Un-hunh. I just bet you are. Thanks. Anyway, I got someone who's going to be happy to see you.″

Shelly led them inside; they slowed to a stop when a big, Shepard-mutt mix stuck his head out around the corner at the end of the hall. 

Dean dropped to one knee, held out his hand, and softly called out for the dog. ″Hey, Fi, good old Fi, hey Fidus..how ya doin’, buddy?″

The dog padded out from around the corner, tail held out and swishing once or twice politely before jerking to a stop. Did a canine version of a double-take. His big-eared head swiveled from Dean to Sam as if in disbelief, and he began to whine. Sam felt his eyes fill, remembering this big, fluffy dog as an abandoned little puppy, covered in dirt, and crawling with bugs, the way his ribs had looked like a washboard. He dropped to his knees besides Dean, and held his hands out as well.

″C’mon, Fidus, c’mon, little boy...″

Fidus launched himself down the hallway, bowling Dean over, whining and barking, his tail going a mile a minute. Then he leaped over Dean to throw himself on Sam, crawling up his body until Sam had an armful of over-grown puppy, licking frantically at his face, stopping only to take a breath and bark in excitement. It was one of the best moments Sam could remember having. 

Dean looked at them from his place on the floor, flat on his back, and his eyes looking suspiciously wet. Sam noticed how green they were, how clear... ″Missed us, hunh, boy?″

Shelly plopped down next to them as Fi finally released Sam. He gave her a quick, friendly lick and a shimmy as well, before pinning Dean under his body and enthusiastically slurping away at his face, his neck, his hair—anything he could get his tongue on. 

Shelly was laughing, a full-body laugh that rang in the air. ″I’m so glad you guys are back. It’s not that Fidus was pining—well, maybe he was—I've never seen him this happy.″

″Yeah,″ Dean murmured, rubbing Fi’s ears and patting him back to calm again. ″Yeah, it’s nice,″ he said, and looked up at Sam. ″Now he can come home again.″

Sam nodded, afraid to speak because it was...well, it was what he’d wanted for a long time and now it was happening he could barely trust in it. The cracked pieces of his life were falling into place; if he opened his mouth, he was afraid he’d ruin it. 

When Dean opened the car door and Fi flew in, jumping right into the back seat, it felt like another piece of the puzzle dropping into place.

* * * 

Sam lay on his back, staring up at the furniture store's pocked and stained drop ceiling and wondering if they ever changed the tiles in these places. The ones above his head were positively repellent. He frowned and Dean rolled to his side. "Don’t like this one?″

"Nah, I actually do like this one. Very comfy.″ He lifted his arms and dropped them at his sides, kicked his legs a little. "Kind of weird, the way it molds to you...″

Dean shrugged, best he could lying on his back against the resilient mattress. "It’s not as good as the bunker’s mattress—what?″ he said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Sam’s sudden snort. "Did you pee on my bed or something?″

Sam let out a startled laugh. _"No!_ I was just...thinking. About your mattress. And how it loved you,″ he said.

"It did, didn't it?″ Dean mused, a fond little smile on his face, and god, Sam would rather jump naked into a pit of thistles before telling Dean that yeah, it was kind of possible that his bed really had loved him, what with its little magical assist.

"So, shall we let them off the hook and buy this one? They’re about to explode with wanting to tell the giant pansies to get the fuck out of their store.″

They both rolled until they were on their stomachs, chins resting on their hands as they watched sales clerks and most of the shoppers side-eyeing them. Dean winked at an old lady who winked right back, and laughed when she did. "Eh, not our fault if they're too pussy to stand up for their bigoted beliefs,″ he said. With that, Dean rolled off the mattress, his grin was blinding and he was absolutely beautiful, a feeling Sam saw was shared by the old lady, who shot Sam an impressed look. 

"Okay—" Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Thanks to the genius of our good friend, Frank Devereaux, let’s dip into our very healthy account to pay for this.″ 

Sam smiled. He hoped that wherever Frank was now, he was happy, safe, and living the good life. Between the tidy little account they’d found Bobby had left for them, and money their dad had somehow managed to squirrel away for them, and the monies Frank had...well, he hated to say embezzled for them, but call a spade a spade...they were doing much better than okay for the moment.. 

Still, he knew they’d have to do something, start thinking towards their future. If this was the end of the line right here, well...it was time to live a life, including getting jobs.

Dean broke his train of thought, letting out a warble of triumph right into Sam’s ear. He threw an arm around Sam's shoulder and pulled him close. "Guess what?″ he grinned. Turned out he’d somehow managed to secure delivery of the mattress this very day—a minor miracle that he’d no doubt arranged through his own charming brand of flattery and intimidation. Sam had been on the receiving end of that combination enough times to know it was deadly effective. Good for Dean—hell, for the both of them. They’d be reclining on their own king mattress, sheets, blankets, brand new pillows and all tonight.

Sam shivered; the thought of being wrapped around Dean in a bed that actually fit them thrilled him. He wondered if it made sense to stick to his plan of Slow, Careful, Seduction. King bed, fresh sheets, hot skin and the prettiest dick he’d ever seen in his life...fuck. He subtly adjusted himself, feeling his cheeks flush.

Of course, he’d have to let Dean think Slow, Careful, Seduction was his idea. 

Maybe it was time to put some wheels on it.

* * * 

That evening, lounging on the porch as a reward for setting up the bed—full glasses in their hands and faithful dog under their feet—Dean brought up the idea that since they pretty much got the bedroom situation set, what with their fabulous new king mattress and all, maybe it was time to do a bit of a remodel on the kitchen. The original cabinets were adequate when they’d first moved in and knew how temporary a situation it was. But now, Dean said, he had no plans of snatching sharp objects and shoelaces out of the world’s hands anytime soon.

Sam was shocked that Dean was actually saying, out loud, that he was done. Sam had no idea how to respond to that. They’d both done more than anyone should be called on to do. Would keep doing it if asked. But was he going to try and talk Dean out of retiring, argue for them to keep jumping between the world and whatever Big Bad arose in the future? Hell no. Dean was offering what their dad had wanted for them—a real life—and he’d be damned before he turned him down. Sam was so fucking on-board with seeing where this was going to go. If it started with godawful boring trips to the fucking Church of Rehab Now again, than so be it. He could take an hour of so hanging out at the home store. He’d learned gobs and gobs of patience in the last couple of years. Tons of patience. No problem there. 

Fidus huffed from his place under Dean’s chair, eyeing Sam in a skeptical way. 

″So, what—you got psychic while we were gone?″ he asked the dog. 

″Whut?″ Dean muttered, barely taking his eyes off his newest issue of Home Porn or whatever it was called. 

″Nothing.″ Sam fake-smiled. Might was well get in practice, he had the feeling he’d be doing it a lot. Sam huffed a little laugh at himself. Really, he needed to stop, home remodeling stuff really wasn’t as bad as he pretended. It was just a little...he raised his glass and tilted it at Dean, who tilted his glass back with a smile. Yeah, it was….

* * * 

God, so _boring._ An hour into their first lap the fucking store, Sam was ready to die of boredom or kill someone, namely some tall, green-eyed, hot asshole to alleviate the god-awful boredom. He was slouched against a shelf load of varnishes and paint strippers, clutching a handful of kitchen booklets just to keep from transferring that grip to his brother's throat.

Dean stopped caressing a cabinet door to turn to Sam, his eyes warm and his mouth doing that thing where it looked impossibly softer, said, ″Thanks, Sammy. I know you hate doing this, but...I do appreciate that you’re doing it for me.″ His voice was deep, quiet, so that Sam had to lean a little closer to him to hear. Dean reached up and squeezed Sam’s shoulder and the smile he gave Sam made his insides turn into indulgent goo.

″Oh, I don't mind, it's really not that—oh, you manipulative _fucker,_ he snapped as Dean started snickering. ″You think I'm that easy? I know you just need someone to help carry stu--″

″Hey Anderson! When’d you get back in town?″ A big booming voice was accompanied by a big, blocky guy with a huge smile and a thick beard.

″Bear!″ The guy mock-punched Dean, who mocked a couple of punches back at the guy, which sent Sam’s eyebrows flying high. Macho play-fighting was not a thing Dean and he did...yeah, but apparently it was something Dean _Anderson_ did. Dean and the Bear guy slammed each other on the back, once-twice, and jumped back from each other.

Straight boy hug, Sam thought sarcastically. He did remember the guy now, he’d seen him once or twice from before. 

″I'm glad you’re back. So, grab a vest, and get to work, we’ll fill out the particulars later,″ Bear grinned. 

Dean laughed, stopped when Bear didn't laugh along. ″You're serious?″

"Hell yeah. This is my store now, so yeah. Well, okay, paperwork, we can do that first. And you’ll have to do the little corporate dance, but after that, we’ll talk about giving you Paint. We just got rid of the last idiot so this is like the answer to my prayers.″

″Well...well,″ Dean said, "We’ll talk.″

"Good. I’ll be glad to have you back; it’ll be great working with someone I won’t have to babysit,″ he said, bulldozing right over Dean’s protests. "And Sam, good to see you again.″ He winked at them before walking off. 

"Hunh. Guess I have a job,″ Dean said, staring down the aisle at Bear. "That’s...interesting.″ He turned to Sam and shrugged, barely managing to rein in a grin.

"Promotion, too. Mr. Manager Guy.″ Sam chuckled."Not bad for one afternoon.″

* * * 

  
__  
**Dean**  
  
Being back to work meant he was working days and rehabbing mostly nights and weekends—he’d told Bear he’d only accept the offer if he got weekends off; Bear had wrangled him into being okay with every other weekend, which Dean knew was the kind of a miracle that he was not looking in the mouth. All in all, he had to admit he didn’t mind being back that much. It was an okay job to have while he thought about what it was he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Dean shuddered.

Rest of his life. There was a freaky concept. 

It was one of his Saturdays off. He’d gotten up early to celebrate with pancakes, coffee and a plan to gut the kitchen. He leaned over the sink, staring out at the backyard, bathed in bright, acid sunlight—no snow, thank goodness, but the air was chilled and he really enjoyed the heat from his cup of coffee, waiting for the heat to kick on.

He was drinking his second cup when Sam came into the room, dressed like they were about to hit the road on a hunt, and clutching a sledge hammer he must have found in the garage. "Okay, let’s get started!

Dean slowly set his cup down on the table and asked, "What the hell are you doing?″

"We’re taking out the old cabinets today, right?″

Dean raised an eyebrow and leaned to his side, he came back up from the floor holding a cordless drill and held it out to Sam. "Yes. We are going to unscrew the cabinets from the wall, and then take them out. This way I can reuse them in the garage. And save our drywall. _Sledgehammer.″_ He scoffed. "Set your Thor-ass down and stop watching those home shows—they’re complete bullshit.″ 

Sam pouted, leaning the hammer in the corner and taking a seat. "I knew this wasn't going to be any fun,″ he muttered. "It’s never any fun.″

Dean took a sip of coffee, then said,″How bout this; I'll give you a blowjob after, how’s that for fun?″ 

He really expected Sam to laugh or throw something at him; Dean sure didn’t expect him to kick his chair back and snap, ″Fuck you, Dean. Fuck you.″

Sam’s eyes were narrowed, his lips pulled into a tight frown. He looked furious, but his body told Dean a different story...Sam was pulled in on himself, arms folded across his midsection and shoulders curved in. He’d gone all pale—except for slashes of red across his cheekbones and the tip of his nose. He looked like he’d been kneed in the crotch. Kneed in the crotch and then laughed at. 

Sam muttered, "Fucker,″ one last time before storming out of the room. Dean wanted to punch himself in the face. God, if he could only take back the last few minutes….

Why the fuck was he always, _always_ the one to screw things up? 

When they’d left here, he’d been so sure that he’d never mess up what they’d gained. That he’d keep Sam safe, and close. So sure that being back on the road wouldn’t change a thing between them. 

But of course he’d screwed up, slowly, surely, bit by bit, Dean had chipped away at the bond of _them;_ he’d lost faith in himself, in what they were to each other. He’d waffled between not trusting himself to not wanting to drag Sam down with him, like some self-sacrificing martyr. 

And always, the little voice in the back of his head, happily feeding the belief he wasn’t worthy—sometimes loud, sometimes a whisper, but always there.

One morning he’d woken up, alone for the hundredth day in a row, and he’d realized that what they’d had was done. Being here, though—being home—had him thinking that maybe he could fix what he’d broken. But here he was, barely a month gone by, and he was fucking up again. 

After an uncomfortable wait while guzzling another coupla cups of coffee, Sam walked back into the kitchen, hair damp, eyes a little raw, and his face pink from scrubbing.

″Ready to start taking the cabinets out,″ he said. He sounded normal, even cheerful, but his expression was carefully blank and not fooling Dean in the least, not the way his eyes barely met Dean’s as he looked around the kitchen. 

″Yeah, unh...we need to move the fridge out, and disconnect the stove...take-out for a few days.″

″Oh, right, forgot about that,″ Sam said, and then stood silently until Dean coughed, and pointed him towards the cabinets by the windows. 

"Those small ones you can take out while I move the fridge.″

It was not the fun day Dean had hoped for. They worked mostly in silence, Sam moving efficiently and somehow managing to avoid touching Dean in a kitchen that was not all that big when things were in order, much less in the chaos of demolition. Dean just kept plugging away, not knowing how to reach out to Sam, not over something this huge. 

He was so fucking grateful for the end of the day, and that relief lasted until bedtime. He stood in the hallway, unsure where to move, but Sam of course, knew exactly what to do. He came out of the bedroom clutching one of the extra blankets and a pillow. ″Gonna bunk downstairs tonight,″ he said with a small, soft smile. He padded past Dean, followed by Fi, who gave Dean a guilty look but kept on Sam’s heels. 

Dean stood in the hall a while longer, staring at the walls, until finally exhaustion shoved him through the bedroom door and onto the bed. He lay there on his stomach without moving until around dawn he finally fell asleep.

* * * 

Morning came, and Dean practically tip-toed down the stairs, his bare feet making no noise. He crossed the living room, coming to stand quietly in front of the couch. He watched Sam sleep like he’d done a million times before in a million motel rooms, from Sam's toddlerhood to becoming a grown man; making sure he was breathing, making sure he slept unchallenged by dream monsters.

Dean padded closer, listening to Sam's even, deep breathing. Almost unconsciously, Dean ended up on his knees in front of the couch. Sam’s hair was sleep-mussed, strands curling across his face, framing his cheeks. Leaning towards Sam, he Dean quietly reached for him, wanting to card his fingers through Sam's hair the way he’d done nearly every day of pre-puberty Sammy’s childhood. Dean let out a most unmanly yelp when Sam suddenly grabbed his hand. 

"Shit!″ 

"What are you doing?″

"Nothing, I swear,″ Dean said, pulling against Sam’s grip, embarrassed to be caught in a moment of emotion that didn’t involve pushing for sex. 

Sam dropped Dean’s hand. Rolling his eyes, he shoved Dean away, his lip curling in a snarl. 

"Fucking hell, Dean, you piss me off so much. Maybe I should just go out and kill someone we know so we can fucking have sex again this decade.″

"Sam!″ Dean was honestly shocked, in fact, kind of horrified at Sam’s outburst. By the way Sam closed his eyes and silently cursed, Dean was pretty sure Sam had shocked himself with what he’d said. 

"Jesus...I didn’t mean that—I can’t believe I said that.″ He looked up at Dean, his eyes a swirl of green and blue and amber. "The killing someone part, I don’t know where the fuck that came from. Just...God, Dean! Don't make me beg. It’ll only piss me off and screw us up even more.″

"But, but Sam, you don't want—"

Sam slapped his hand over Dean’s mouth, maybe a little harder than he had to to make a point. Dean’s eyes watered a little, but he stared into Sam’s defiantly. Sam cursed, said, "So help me god, you _don’t_ want to finish that, because if you do, I'm gonna have to kick your ass all over the house. You know I can.″ 

Sam sat up, swinging his legs over the couch edge to bracket Dean with his knees. He bent slightly, and took Dean’s face in his hands. "Dean. Please. I’m not begging you. I’m _asking_ you. I forgave you; why can’t you forgive me?″

"Fuck, Sammy, what am I supposed to forgive you for? I’m the one screwed everything up. I want you, 'course I want you, you have to know that. I'm just...afraid of hurting you. I want you to have everything you deserve, Sam, _everything,_ and what am I? Nothing.″

Sam’s fierce expression softened, and his grip shifted. He gripped Dean's collar, twisting his hand up in the fabric and yanking Dean so close, all he could see was Sam’s eyes. "I’m...I'm really reaching deep inside me, Dean, to find the strength not to punch the stupid out of you. Now, look at my mouth. Listen to me. Hear me. _I. Want. You._ No one else. I don't have the room in me to give a shit about anyone not you.″

Dean’s eyes filled and he let them spill over. "Sammy….″

"I don’t give a fuck about anyone else, because you know why? Who knows me better? Who gets all my lumps and scars and broken bits? All my missing pieces? I’m border-line crazy and a fuckin’ ex- junkie. Who’s going to be able to handle that the way you can? Who’s ever going to understand me better than you?″

"Yeah, well, but look what you’re stuck with. I’m a border-line alcoholic and an ex-torturer who kind of, sort of...misses it? In a way I can’t explain. Just...sometimes...″ he whispered. "But you know that about me and you don’t judge. You get all my scars and shattered bits and the cracked pieces that don’t—won’t ever—match up again. Who knows me better?″ He laid his cheek against the inside of Sam's thigh. "I missed you, Sammy,″ he murmured. "I missed this. Can I…?″

He inched closer to Sam's dick, feeling the heat radiating from his skin, the way Sam just managed to swallow a groan, and whispered in a voice gone hoarse. "Yeah...if you want, if you’re sure—″

"Shut up, Sam. We both want this. No questions, No waffling. Right?″ He licked over the cloth-covered head of Sam’s dick, enjoying the sound Sam made in response, and the way his dick jerked, filled, sliding down Sam’s leg until the flushed head of his dick peeked out the bottom edge of his boxers. Dean kissed the tip, rubbing his lips against the silky-smooth skin. He lipped at it until a bead of slick bubbled up, leaked out to soak the fabric edge along with Dean’s saliva. He closed his mouth around just the tip, the very tip, and teased the slit with the pointed tip of his tongue, drawing out more slick, enjoying the slightly salty taste. 

Sam shuddered, moaned, and more of his long, slim dick slid out the loose leg of the boxers. Dean admired the way it looked, fucking hot as hell, flushed rosy-red, the way his slit was already pouting, glistening. He rucked up the leg of the baggy boxers, exposing more of Sam’s dick, showing a glimpse of his balls...Dean traced the seam of them with his thumb, slowly stroking over them, pulling at the skin—just this side of rough, the way Sam liked. 

He rocked back on his heels, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself before leaning forward again, sucking at the loose skin, laving over Sam’s sac, just sucking and licking and nuzzling at Sam until the fabric of his boxers were soaked, so wet they were almost translucent. The sight was fucking hot as hell, but now those boxers were blocking him from what he wanted—more of Sam, more skin, more scent, more of everything. 

Sam immediately lifted his hips at Dean’s touch to his knee. Dean yanked the boxers down, let them puddle on the floor, urged Sam to lift his feet out of them. 

"Fucking hot, Sammy. So fucking hot.″ He walked his fingers down the long curve of Sam’s dick, watched it jerk and thicken, veins standing out along the length, the head of his dick begging for his tongue—he wanted to take it right into his throat—something he must have said out loud, because Sam groaned, long, loud, cursed as his dick surged up and slapped wetly against his thigh, strings of precome dangling and smearing between Dean’s fingers and Sam. 

Dean shoved a hand down into his sweats, gripped himself, shuddering as his dick swelled and jumped in his fist. 

_Fuck._ Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply when his brother’s big hands wrapped around his head. Sam pulled him in, kissing him, sucking on his tongue, gasping and talking 'cause Sam loved to talk, had to talk; telling Dean all the things he was going to do to him, what he wanted Dean to do to him. 

_"Yes, yes, yes...″_ Dean kissed it into Sam’s mouth, and groaned it into his skin, and hoped he wasn't going to come too quickly—it’d been a fucking long, long time. He took Sam in his mouth and froze, overwhelmed with the way Sam's dick felt on his tongue, loving the way it filled his mouth, made him drool; Dean swallowed, trying to keep the mouthful of spit and precome from choking him.

Sam shuddered, opened his eyes, stared down at Dean. Shoving his hips forward so his dick sank into Dean's mouth and hit the back of his throat, Sam left Dean working frantically to take him in, to breathe, not to gag. He wanted it all, the entire long, slim, hot length of him. Wanted it crowding out everything—space, air, everything. He wanted to choke on Sam's fucking dick, die on it, fucking—Dean swallowed jerkily, drool and precome mixing, bubbling out of the corners of his mouth. It’d been a while, and he was having a hard time adjusting, but it didn't matter. Sam's harsh breaths and deep moans suddenly morphed into a low, deep scream; he grabbed Dean’s head and ground into his face, coming so hard Dean couldn't keep it all in. Strings of spit and come laced his chin, dripping to the floor. 

He fell forward when Sam pulled back carefully, hissing as he slipped past Dean’s lips. That was it for Dean—he was gasping for breath, shooting into his own fist and gnawing at the abused skin of Sam’s thigh until he got pushed away. Felt like hours before he dragged himself off the floor, wiped them up a bit using Sam’s boxers, and crawled up on the couch next to him, smirking when Sam complained. "No room for me, and your fat ass too.″

"You love my fat ass,″ Dean grumbled, elbowing Sam until he turned. 


	4. Chapter 4

  
**_Dean_**  
″Dean, Donnie called, asked if we’d be okay with meeting up today since he’s in town?″ 

Sam’s hands were curled around the doorway’s edge, letting his arms take his weight as he leaned into the room without actually stepping inside. Dean could tell his mood was nowhere near as relaxed as his stance—the smile he gave Dean was tight, not to mention the tidy distance he was keeping between them. He was dressed too, looking like he’d been up for a few hours—probably had been because Dean could smell coffee brewing. 

He held out hope that whatever was up with Sam, the fact he’d made coffee was a good sign. 

It took a minute or two to pull himself upright, and then Dean eased his legs over the edge of the couch—his knees were bitching up a storm. It added to his feeling out of sorts. He sat wondering why he was on the couch until the memory of the incredible early morning he’d had with Sam hit him like a runaway train. How the hell had his brain even withheld that from him? It’d been a fuckin’ miraculous morning—he’d come so hard it knocked him right out, and Sam too. So why the hell was Sam not on the couch with him now? After what they’d shared, Sam should be here, right on Dean’s ass. So to speak.

″Oh, unh, yeah Sam, sure, that sounds good. You know, let’s stop at the diner before. Cooking’s out for the next day or two since I disconnected the stove.″

He could see Sam was struggling to keep a neutral expression, but he’d never had been all that good at covering up his feelings from Dean; Sam not meeting Dean’s eyes was always a huge ass tip-off that he was hiding something, and Dean’s gut lurched with a sick feeling. Sam was having some kind of negative feelings about last night. _Had_ to be about last night. Fuck...wouldn’t it be just his luck, Dean thought, that in thinking he’d opened the door to healing them, he’d screwed them up even worse? Fuckin’ doing it again, taking the lead without considering the consequences….

Sam pulled back and crossed his arms, gave Dean another one of those tight, little smiles. ″All right, that sounds good. I’ll call him back and let him know we’re coming. Gonna run Fidus first—grab a cup of coffee when you get out of the shower, it’s all set.″ Sam unfolded, patting the door frame—a little sign that meant he was done talking. 

″Cool, I’ll be ready in a few.″ Dean stood, and yawned, grimacing as he stretched. Fuck, he really felt like he’d thrown himself from a moving car instead of sleeping a couple hours on the couch—maybe Sam was right about getting new furniture. He heard a little gasp, a familiar sound that in good times would usually have been followed by Sam latching onto some part of him. Dean made a bigger show of stretching, feeling somewhat more hopeful, but he turned to find an empty doorway.

Yep. That was some short-lived hope. Dean sighed. Didn’t matter. Dean knew they were _right_ there, and last night proved it. He was not going to spend the rest of his damn life wondering _what if I'd done this, or not done this._ Screw that. He was going to fix them. He was going to get his relationship with brother back if he had to drag Sammy kicking and screaming into it. Okay, maybe not kicking and screaming because that sounded counterproductive, but back to being Sammy and him together, brothers, best friends, and that other thing. End of story.

* * *

_Hunh._ The diner looked exactly the same, Dean thought, as their car doors opened and shut in sync. Not that he’d really expected it to look any different. They never really changed all that much, diners; they seldom got more than an updated menu, prices raised, or maybe their bathrooms fixed up. He was probably one of the few people around who could say that with certainty. The thought made him laugh— _what a life._ Sam made a little inquiring noise, but Dean just shook his head, opening the door for Sam with a sheepish grin and a shrug. Earned him a sliver of a smile back from Sam.

Walking into the place made the hair on Dean’s neck rise, just for a moment—not in a necessarily unpleasant way. He and Shel had eaten here a lot, but strangely, he’d never brought Sam here. It made for an odd moment, looking across the table and seeing Sam slide into the booth across from him. He picked up the menu and let out a little breath. Yeah, this was better.

A young girl came up to the table, pulling a pen out of her tumble of jet black hair. She smiled at them, wide and professional, as she flipped open her order pad. "What can I get you guys?″ she asked, and Dean wondered when the hot waitresses had all turned into little babies. Shame, that. Seemed unfair…. 

Checking out the menu, he ordered for Sam and himself while his brother looked on in interest, his chin resting on his hand and the faint ghost of the smile he’d given Dean earlier softening his mouth.

"Great,″ the waitress said, tucking the pen back into the thicket of her curls. "It’ll be up in a moment. My shift is ending so another waitress’ll be bringing your food. You guys have a nice day.″ 

When they were alone again, Sam asked in a deceptively gentle voice that wasn’t fooling Dean one damn bit, "Ever occur to you that I don't like when you order for me?″

″I—I – oh. It’s not something I do a lot. Is it?″ Dean asked, suddenly not entirely sure that ordering for Sam every so often wasn’t some sort of bullying, uber-controlling thing. ″I just. I don't know, sometimes you don't eat enough.″

″And that’s always been a problem of ours—that you can’t seem to get a handle on separating yourself from me. Or what you’re feeling from what I'm feeling. I love you, Dean, a lot; I just want to be my own person as I’m doing it.″

″And that’s why, Sam. That right there is why I stepped aside when we got back on the road. So you weren’t chained to me with that as well—″

"See? That’s just the sort of thing I’m afraid of. That you’d forget what you said last night, or, or didn’t mean it, the same way you did when we were here the first time. That’s why I automatically try and protect myself from you, Dean.″ _You hurt me_ glittered in Sam’s eyes.

"Sam, of course I meant it. I do. Maybe it’s my fault, I pull away, but you, you just let it happen so I think, 'it can’t mean as much to him as it does to me’, and why would it...sometimes, Sam, I hardly know what the fuck to think. I just know one thing—" Dean realized he was getting loud when he saw the little kids sitting in front of them were staring wide-eyed and fascinated over the back of their booth. ″Let’s talk about this later, okay? And I mean it, we will talk. Swear.″ 

Someone came up to their table and Dean shoved his napkin aside so the waitress had room to set plates down.

″Good to see you back, handsome.″

Dean jerked his eyes up and smiled when he recognized who’d spoken. ″Hee-ey Doris. How’ve you been?″

The sixty-some year old waitress gave him the once-over and smirked. ″I’ve been good, hon. Looks like time’s been good to you, too. And who’s this handsome friend of yours?″

″Ah-ah-ah. You're gonna have to keep your hands to yourself. That one’s mine.″ Dean said. He could feel the blush rise on his cheeks, but he kept the cheeky grin on his face by sheer will-power. Sam and Doris both gawped at him, identical looks of surprise on their faces, but okay, Dean got it. He’d never acknowledged Sam outside of the bubble of safety this place had felt like, never out in the general world before. But it had been for Sam's sake he did it, to protect him from the idiots and creeps in the real world. Who knew that Sam was taking it as rejection? 

Dean closed his eyes. He should have known. He was such a fuckin’ idiot…

″Good taste, darlin’.″ Doris winked at him. ″You enjoy your...breakfast,″ she drawled and sauntered off, swinging her hips like she was twenty. 

″Wow.″ Sam said, reaching for his fork and knife. His cheeks were a little pink, and he had the most pleased smile on his face. "Okay, that was...″

″Yes, it was.″ Dean winked at Sam over the rim of his cup.

Taking a healthy bite of his egg white omelet, Sam chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes, his eyes fixed over Dean’s shoulder. He swallowed and shifted focus to Dean. ″Thanks,″ he said.

″Hey, I know what you like.″

″No, I meant—″

″I know,″ Dean said.

″Oh. Well...okay, then.″

They finished breakfast in silence, but it was a pretty good silence, Dean thought. Maybe he’d been cheating on his Undercover Seduction Master Plan, what with blowing Sam into compliance last night, and then practically jumping up and claiming him in public, but look what it got him—that expression on Sam’s face, and the way Sam was currently hooking his foot around Dean’s….

"Want me to warm that up?″ the sultry voice came again, and Doris wasn’t fooling anyone, Dean thought. "Nope. Got this one all on my own, thanks.″

* * *

They swung by their house to gather up Fi, then headed over to Donnie and—to Donnie’s. Dean figured there was probably never going to be a time when he wouldn’t automatically add Ford’s name to Donnie's.

They pulled up to the front of the Sprigg’s house, parking behind a moving truck that was pulling off. The front door was open and Donnie was in the open doorway, waving to them. "Coming,″ he called out, stepping onto the porch. Fi started jumping back and forth in the rear, totally ignoring all the rules of car travel: sit still, no slobbering on the driver’s neck, no jumping around, and no shedding ever.

Sam opened his door before Dean could get out a warning—fortunately, Sam was already moving out of the way as Fidus leaped over the seat back. The furball still managed to hit Sam’s lap before hurtling out of the door, and Dean struggled hard not to burst into laughter—the _face_ on Sam—it was goddamn hilarious. Lucky for Sam, Fi’d just planted a heavy paw in his thigh. It could have been way worse, way way worse.

Dean snorted, unable to hold back just a little bit of a laugh, and Sam jabbed him in the gut. "Shut up,″ Sam groaned, "Damn it, Fidus.″ 

Fi paid no mind; he was tearing up the short sidewalk, tail waving wildly. He stopped just short of jumping up on Donnie, as if he knew that though it would definitely be allowed, jumping on Donnie would be painful for his old bones. Instead he leaned against Donnie and licked his hands thoroughly. Fi generously allowed Donnie to make the appropriate fuss over him, and then went loping out to the garden, to sniff around for any changes that might have occurred in his absence.

Dean was still trying to muffle laughter when he got out of the car, until he caught sight of Donnie. Donnie had changed; he was thinner, and a little stooped, and looked older than the two years they’d been gone. Still, the smile he gave them was bright and wide, and he looked genuinely pleased to see them. 

"The minute I heard you boys were back in town, I told Shel to send you out here. It's damn good to see you," he said, spreading his arms wide. Sam, and then Dean, hugged the old guy, and respectfully ignored the way he wiped at his eyes. 

Sam followed him inside, Dean took up the rear, looking around in surprise. It didn’t look like same house—and then Dean realized it was just emptier than he’d been expecting. The walls were bare, and some of the larger pieces of furniture were gone, like that big table in the dining room where they’d had dinner together, and the buffet thing Dean remembered being laid out with deserts when they’d spent Thanksgiving with the boys. The couch Sam had slept on while they cleaned up after was still there, but the puffy cushions, and the thick, fuzzy throw that Ford had made tucked around Sammy were gone. There was just a general air of sadness, as if the life in that house had been sucked out. Sam glanced at Dean, his eyes gone dark and serious, and Dean understood what he was thinking; how difficult, how painful it was to go on without the person who made your life worth living. He nodded, a subtle tilt of his head, but it was enough to make Sam smile softly at him.

How sad, Dean thought, the way grief could sink into the bones of a house and change it. The welcome that Ford and Donnie's house had always had was muted now, nearly gone. Maybe it was good that Donnie was leaving. Dean couldn’t imagine the man would be able to stay, not with daily reminders that he’d lost Ford. 

Sam moved around Dean, his hands gliding gently over Dean’s waist as he passed him, and went to Donnie. He laid his hand on the man’s shoulder, squeezing a bit before stepping back. ″You seem tired, Donnie. It’s hard packing up, isn’t it? Going through all your stuff and...″ 

Sam’s voice trailed off as Donnie took in a loud, shaky breath. ″Oh, yes. I...″ he wiped his face, and sighed. ″Yes. it’s hard, boys, it’s very hard.″ He let Sam wrap him up in his mile-long arms and pull him in against his chest. Dean knew just how good those hugs could be. Like finally finding water after being lost in the freakin’ desert. Just good and...safe.

Yeah. Sam always was better at that stuff than Dean was.

They spent the afternoon with Donnie, talking about the times past they’d shared, the changes coming in the future—Sam promised Donnie they’d come back soon.

″Call us when you’re here packing, so we can help you out. We mean it, Mr. Don,″ Dean said, stooping a little to meet Donnie’s eyes, and not leaving until Donnie agreed to the help.

* * * 

Back in the car, Sam sat quietly, tapping the dash as Dean took a few seconds to rifle through his cassette box, and change out the tape in the deck. Out of nowhere, Sam said, ″Something's wrong,″ startling Dean. He fumbled a cassette, dropping it, had to lean over and fish around under the seat to find it, no thanks to Sam, or help from him either. Dean peered up at him, pissed at first, but Sam looked totally serious, so Dean just sat back with a grunt.

″Hunh. Well, yeah, I did think he looked kinda off. But I don’t know, he’s moving, probably got too much to think of.″

_″Haunted,″_ Sam said firmly. ″Like he’s carrying a weight a little heavier than grief.″

Dean steered away from the curb, eyes darting towards the back seat to check on Fi, then back towards the house. There was a dark shape at the living room window...it looked a little taller than it should. ″Haunted. You mean that literally, Sammy?″

″What? Literally? Well, I’m not sure I did, but now I am wondering...″

″No way to find out without sounding crazy.″ Dean smirked. ″But that’s pretty much our stock in trade, ain’t it?″

Dean felt pretty damn good when that got a solid laugh out of Sam. ″Yeah, I guess it is. We’ll invite ourselves over for cocktails; we’ll bring the booze and EMF meters.″

* * *

****

_Sam_

″Do you think we should paint the kitchen the same color as before?″ Dean pursed his lips, staring at the walls with the concentration of a heart surgeon before they cracked a patient’s chest open.

They were already sticky and gross from taking the cabinet boxes out. Working in the small space had heated it up despite the touch of fall in the air, and Dean once again was babbling about ripping out walls and bringing the kitchen up to date and blah-blah-blahblah….

Sam looked Dean up and down, glanced around the area before shrugging. Really, as far as he was concerned, a kitchen was a kitchen was a kitchen. It was just a place where Dean cooked. Like, really really good, but still….″Yeah. I guess. I don’t know...″

″Sam, you can’t be this clueless; hork up an opinion, for god’s sake.″

Sam could see it frustrated the hell out of Dean, having a brother who was a total blank in terms of taste. His lips were plumped from chewing on them, the habit he had of licking them in thought. The worn-out old jeans he was wearing had slid down a little, pulled by the weight of the ridiculous and certainly not sexy tool belt he wore. There was nothing hot about the tight-ass A-shirt he was wearing, nothing hot about the streak of sweat down the back that darkened the fabric and clung to him, and the way the muscles in his arms rolled and bunched when he reached up to scrub a hand through his sweat-dampened hair...fuck. The way his eyes widened with outrage, and the way it just made them look that much greener and his lashes longer and darker than normal and—

_Oh. My. God. Just fuck this kitchen shit—_ ″All right then, I do have an opinion. And my opinion is I wanna fuck you in the shower. Like, right now. Can we do that?″

Dean gawped at Sam, but only for a moment before setting his tools down. He let out a long, dramatic sigh, like Sam was being ridiculously demanding. ″Okay. Well, that’s kind of out of left field, but I guess I can deal with it.″

Sam shoved him hard enough to stumble him across the small kitchen, laughing all the way. "Jerk!″ Sam yelled, and Dean only laughed harder, gasping out, "Bitch!″ in between breaths. 

Sam walked over, grabbed the center of Dean’s shirt and yanked him in, planting a big, wet, kiss on him. ″Fuck, I’ve missed being able to do this whenever I wanted, missed you doing it to me. Wanna return the favor of the other night, Dean. I wanna get on _my_ knees and suck you down—choke on your fucking beautiful dick—″ 

″Holy fuck. Me too, I mean, I want you to do that too. Damn, Sam,″ Dean smirked at him. "Almost forgot what a mouth you get when you go all alpha male on me.″

Sam refused to dignify that with an answer so he just dragged Dean towards the stairs.

They made it upstairs in record time, despite elbow digs and hip-checks, with a lot of snorting and giggling, and stumbling into walls. Sam saved a naked Dean from plunging headfirst into the shower when he tripped on the bathmat while stripping—he just barely avoided ripping through the shower curtain. 

"Jesus, you're graceful as a toaster,″ Sam muttered and kicked their discarded clothes into the corner.

"Hey, what ya doin’? We’re putting those back on after.″ 

Sam made a face, nose wrinkling in disgust at his Neanderthal brother once again. He stepped into the tub and turned Dean so he wasn't facing the water "Noo-o, we’ll be clean then. Our clothes, however, will be rank with BO 'n sweat.″

"So picky,″ Dean mumbled, but he was already absently rubbing a little soap over the swell of Sam’s ass, licking around his nipples s he did it. When Dean grazed them with his teeth, Sam rocked into it, shivering.

"Fuck. You know I love that, yeah, when you suck them, go on...″ Sam moaned as he cupped the back of Dean’s head, trying to keep him focused there, but Dean shook his head. 

"Not looking to drown in here, Sasquatch. How about you face the wall, though, let me finger you open?″

Dean slid to his knees and Sam’s own knees almost buckled. _Oh. Fuck._ Dean knew how much he loved that too. They didn’t fuck all that often, tending more towards blowjobs or using hands, but Sam _loved_ Dean’s fingers in his ass as he blew him; it was his favorite, something about it was so fucking intimate. 

"Just for a second, drown or not, I can’t be this close to your ass and not..″ Dean was sucking and nuzzling at an ass cheek, and muttering away about something. Sam tipped his head so he could hear him better and almost kicked him. The fucker was talking about renovating the shower, higher nozzles and a seat and grab bars and, Jesus, this remodeling stuff was a disease. Though Sam guessed he could see the benefits of grab bars..and a seat, wouldn’t mind a seat.  
Dean’s fingers worked into Sam, sending pleasure sparking through him. His dick slapped against his thigh when Dean bit down—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to get Sam’s whole attention. Way before Sam was ready for him to, Dean stood and said, "Hold this.″

Sam blinked water out of his eyes as he grabbed the thing Dean gave him—a bottle of conditioner. Dean held his hands for Sam to fill with the liquid, shoved them between Sam's thighs to smooth handfuls of slick fluid between his legs, water and conditioner making the slide absolutely perfect, then his hand was around Sam’s dick, stroking, stroking….

Seconds later, the head of Dean’s fat dick slid between his legs. It was intense, feeling Dean feeding his dick between his thighs, the way the head nudged and rubbed against his sac, and Dean’s hand speeding up the friction on his dick. He was so hot, the warm water felt cool against his skin. Dean’s touch was so fucking good, overwhelming, and for some weird reason he started to laugh, the tiles bouncing the sound back at them. Soft chuckles came from behind him. 

Dean rubbed his mouth against Sam’s wet shoulder, sucking slightly, soothing the sting with his tongue. He pulled back to murmur, "Yeah? You like this, don't you? Feels good, right? You not gonna tell me how you love it, what you want me to do, Mouthy Boy?″

"No,″ Sam gasped, "you just...just do it, whatever you want, however you want it. Anything, I’ll take anything.″ 

"Fuck, Sam,″ Dean groaned, and Sam was sure he felt Dean’s dick thicken, he started punching into his thighs, faster harder, his free hand dropping down to grip Sam’s ass so tight, Sam was spread wide. Sam reached behind himself to rub his own hole, and Dean cursed, long, loud, jammed his dick between Sam’s quivering thighs, and came hard, mashing Sam’s hand between them, groaning 'til he sounded like he was in pain, grinding his dick between Sam’s legs. Sam tried to keep the tension constant but it was too much for him; his balls drew tight, and in seconds he was shooting strings of come against the wall before almost collapsing with the aftershock and trembling muscles. 

Dean’s come dribbled down between Sam’s thighs, dripped to the floor of the tub, swirling around in the water and then down the drain. Sam looked down between his feet and tried not to jump out of the tub—it was just come, just water and it came from him and, yeah. Not really down with standing in it, but Dean was barely holding on, his head rolling between Sam's shoulder blades, breath hot and frantic on his back, and wasn’t moving for a few more minutes at least. Sam concentrated on the feeling of Dean relaxing, cuddling against him, his dick soft and warm against Sam and squashed all thoughts of semen in the tub. He was generous like that. 

"Damn, you hot motherfucker...″ Dean groaned. "I’m getting too fucking old for this.″

"Ah, I don’t think so. Up your vitamins, dude, train harder...we just got this back, we’re not fucking going to stop now.″

"How about a seat in here, can I have that?″

"I can definitely see the possibilities there,″ Sam said, turning to kiss Dean, a long, slow, languid kiss, full of tongue and teeth, and Dean muttering 'I love you, you know that right, can’t live without you, don’t want to.’

Sam felt every bit the same.

* * * 

Dean was nice enough to wait for the next day to pick up where they’d left off, when he insisted they had to pay for the pleasure with some work, so they got back to it. They rented a truck from the home store, and picked up their brand new cherry wood cabinets. They got them hung with minimal damage to themselves and zero damage to the cabinets which Dean counted as a solid victory, and in the course of the day, decided that not only did they have to check the Spriggs house out just to make sure, they probably should tell Donnie what was going on. Sam had a feeling Donnie was indeed being haunted, and if it was who they thought it was, then Sam believed that Donnie deserved the truth.

Dean waffled a bit on that. Not that he wanted to lie to Mr. Don, it was just...he hated to break a civilian's peaceful outlook on the world. Once you knew the truth, there was never any coming back. They’d have to explain about the life, and about the supernatural, and the way it sent dark tendrils creeping out to pull ordinary people down into the darkness. 

Still, if they decided they had to tell him, Donnie was a smart old guy; he’d probably deal pretty well with the knowledge. His generation had come up knowing how to keep hard truths to themselves, so there was that in favor of telling him too. Now they just had to convince him first that they weren't crazy.

* * *

Seeing as how they’d worked like indentured servants throughout the day and had spent way too many days before that avoiding the laundry—they’d finally come to the point of washing clothes or going naked. Dean carried a basket of their sweaty, paint-spattered clothes out to the tiny laundry room off the porch. He was a little annoyed—he’d argued for naked, but Sam told him he was being an asshole and go bring his disgusting boxers downstairs. No, really, Sam was _seriously_ picky sometimes.

As usual, Sam did the bulk of the laundry work, he always had. Dean’s help with laundry work consisted of occasionally schlepping a basket of clean stuff up the stairs, or bringing dirty laundry out to the covered part of the back porch that served as their laundry room for Sam. He mostly kept Sam entertained while he did the work—a fair exchange, Dean thought. Sam must have thought so too since he hadn’t winged any detergent bottles or dirty boxers at Dean yet. 

Dean hopped up and sat cross-legged on top of the washing machine, drinking a beer and watching as Sam shoved a wad of wet jeans into the dryer. Sam straightened and yawned, rubbing a giant paw over his face. He scratched his belly, and Dean peered at the shirt he was wearing. It looked familiar, a Stones tour shirt—and no wonder. Dean realized that it was actually one of his. 

He frowned; he noted that the shirt was a little short, as expected, but fit fine otherwise, maybe even a little loose. Dean sure didn’t like that—once upon a time, a shirt of his would have been skin-tight on his brother's muscular frame. He took a long swallow and sighed as he set the bottle down, unhappy at seeing how skinny Sam still was. Well, Sam didn’t look like he’d been raised in a dark basement anymore, so there was that. He wasn’t getting dizzy spells anymore either, the ones Sam thought he didn’t know about, and his appetite was back, well, back to Sam-normal anyway. Greens and veggie burgers—Dean made a gagging face, to Sam’s apparent confusion. 

Sam had also gone back to running in the morning again, and boy, that Dean didn’t get. Why the hell a person would voluntarily do that, outside of training, he’d never understand. Not complaining, not when it was something Sam wanted.

Sam looked over at Dean and smiled. "What?″

"What? Nothing. You stealing my clothes?″

Sam looked down at himself, smoothed his big hands down his chest like he was petting Fi. "Maybe. You mind?″

Dean snorted. "Have I ever?″ He took another swallow, so he wouldn’t have to talk. Memories of Toddler-Sam wearing one of Dean’s t-shirts, long as a dress on his chubby little self, swirled in his mind. Puberty-Sam defiantly and petulantly wearing them, sometimes mutilating them, much to Dean's consternation. And finally, the day it stopped, with one last purloined tee-shirt shoved in a duffle bag and carried off to Cali.

Dean slipped off the washer, set his bottle down and took Sam by the arms. Leaning in, Dean opened his lips against Sam’s startled meep, coaxing his lips apart, stroking over the inside of Sam’s mouth, tongue against tongue, sucking gently, dip and withdraw, pulling back with a tiny smack, just to make Sam giggle. Sam’s cheeks were red, and it looked beautiful against the healthy bronze glow of his skin. Sam leaned back against the dryer, long fingers kneading Dean’s waist, fingertips sneaking up under the hem to stroke Dean’s skin.. 

Dean laughed softly. "Nah, I guess don’t mind at all.″  


* * *

It was a nice day, a little cool with the reminder that fall was settled in and waiting for winter. Still, Donnie’s garden was so nice it made it pleasant to sit outside on the back porch, and the coffee Donnie served them in big, thick mugs kept them warm. They ate snickerdoodles that Dean had made—surprisingly good, Sam thought. Fidus certainly liked them, managing to mooch most of Donnie’s from him. Their conversation wandered all over, the way it will between friends; old and current gossip in the neighborhood, how much everyone had missed Dean and Sam, and eventually, about grief.

Sam tried to guide their talk around to anything odd thing possibly happening in Donnie’s home, hoping to gently ease into explaining to their friend that the world he thought he knew didn’t exist. He felt like he was gripping at conversational straws without getting anywhere. Finally he blurted out, ″Say, are you having problems with your central air? I was wondering because when we were walking through earlier, I felt some...I don’t know, cold spots?″ Sam knew it was a pretty lame way to approach it, but other than asking 'So, Ford hanging out here, is he? Dean thought he might have seen him at your living room window’...yeah, that should go over really well.

Donnie froze, mug halfway to his mouth. He put it down carefully. "Cold spot. Well...that is an odd question, young Sam.″

Sam reached over and gave Donnie's hand a quick squeeze, said,″Maybe, but I think you know why I’m asking it. Donnie...let me start by saying you mean a lot to me and Dean. We consider you a close friend, and as friends, we’d do anything to help you.″ 

Absolutely,″ Dean said. "There’s nothing you can’t tell us. Nothing.″ 

Sam nodded, and waited for Donnie to respond, but he just ducked his head, and concentrated on the floor between his slippers. Sam plowed ahead—what the heck, if Donnie tossed them on their asses, it was what it was. ″So. Let me guess. You are having trouble. Things you can’t explain away are happening, and it’s worrying, maybe even scary. And you’re afraid you’re losing your mind. You’re _not._ If something feels odd, or wrong, tell us. Don’t worry. We won’t think it’s weird. Trust me, you can’t begin to imagine the things we’ve seen.″ 

"Understatement,″ he heard Dean mutter, and huffed himself. " We have seen a _lot_ of really strange things. It’s our job to resolve problems that most see as impossible.″

Donnie was staring at Sam in a most familiar way; the look from civilian's that said, _oh my god you’re insane,_ but there was possibly a touch of relief, of hope in his eyes as well. "This is not the time to play with me, young man. This better not be about 'catering to the old goat’.You have no idea what I’ve been going through. None.″

Sam set his mug down sharply, startling Fidus who’d been sleeping under Sam’s chair. He jostled Sam as he lifted himself up and padded over to Donnie, setting his muzzle down on his knee with a gusty sigh. Fidus had always been sensitive to emotion—sometimes, like now, he even managed to be comforting instead of heading off to the garage to hide. He was a semi-good dog. 

"It’s a pretty good bet we know a little bit about what’s going on. What’s happening is...″ Sam shifted, catching Dean’s eye. Dean waved him on. "Ghosts are real. We know that places, people, can be haunted, and we know what it takes to undo that. That what we’re are all about. Dean and I have spent almost all our lives trying to help people who need protection from what’s out there in the dark—"

Dean broke in with, ″Yeah, like, ah...you know, that show, Ghostfacers? Ever seen it?″ Sam cut Dean a look, and manfully restrained from rolling his eyes at Dean’s shrug. 

Sam shook his head before turning his attention back to Donnie. He was quietly petting Fidus, rubbing the knot behind his ear, smiling a little when Fidus let out a little doggy groan. "I know who you mean. Seen those boys on TV. They say they cleanse haunted houses of ghosts and things. Ghosts.″ Donnie shook his head, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ″I...do you boys really believe in that stuff? You swear you’ve seen the things those Ghostbuster boys claim to have seen?″

″Ghostfacers, and yes, we have″, Sam said firmly. ″And since you haven’t thrown us out, I'm guessing, so have you?″

Donnie stared at them, blinking, throat working before finally sighing and dragging his hands over his face, rubbing hard before going on. ″Well, hell,″ he said, and pushed Fidus gently aside. He stood and took a few steps towards the deck railing, staring out over the yard before turning back to them.

″Ford...my Ford is back, somehow. And he’s trying to—I’m not sure, but I think he’s trying to watch over me, maybe? It’s scaring me, boys, and I gotta say, I don’t much like being scared of Ford. I _love_ Ford.″ He stopped, coughed out a bitter chuckle. "Lord, I sound like I’m crazy. Do you swear this is the truth, that you actually do this kind of thing for a living?″

″Well, I don’t know about _living,″_ Dean started and Sam elbowed his asshole brother.

″Donnie,″ Sam said, ″We were raised doing this kind of thing, hunting down ghosts and various supernatural uglies.″

″Various…?″ Donnie went gray. ″Are you telling me that there are more things out there than ghosts? Are monster stories are real? No, can’t be. Are they?″

Sam nodded; from the corner of his eye he could see Dean frowning, but nodding as well. God, he fucking hated this part, the part where they totally fuck up a civilian’s life forever. ″Yeah. I’m sorry. It sucks to know. But we can teach you how to protect yourself, and—and we can help Ford and you. Promise.″

″Oh god, if you say so—lord, I hope you can. But you should know, it’s not a simple story.″

Donnie sighed, ushered Dean and Sam back into the house, leaving Fi sleeping again on the deck. He went into the kitchen and brought a squat bottle from the cabinet over the stove. "I think we’re going to need a little bit of Remy for this,″ he said, passing out plastic glasses. He apologized for the lack of glassware, "all I have, boys.″ He carefully sat before pouring for himself and then for Sam and Dean. Took a sip from his glass, rolling the liquor in his mouth, swallowed and let out a small, exhausted sigh.

″I guess I need to start at the beginning, and that was the funeral. It was after the funeral; started then. I was tired and raw. Completely worn down, but jittery too, you know?″

Sam nodded as Dean did. Yes, decidedly, yes.

″I kept moving, kind of flapping around, doing a whole lot of nothing. After a while, I went upstairs, planning to lay myself down, try and nap. Instead, here I go, poking through Ford’s private stuff.″ Donnie stopped, shot them a sick little smile. ″I mean, what was he going to say, right? There was a box on the upper shelf of the closet, an old, wooden jewelry box with a little gold lock on it.″ He stopped, took a fortifying sip of cognac; his eyes filled with tears.

″Ford had a kid, y’know? 'Fore he went to Nam. He and the mother had never married and when Ford came back, he wasn’t interested in pretending anymore, you know what I mean. The kid, a daughter, was old enough to know what they were fighting about, and when all his family turned their backs on Ford, she did too. The box was supposed to be hers, I guess. Anyway, I broke it open. There was a baby picture of her inside. A combat medal, a Seiko watch, that was the watch back in the day. A Zippo lighter with his in-country date engraved on it.″

Donnie stopped, and rubbed at his eyes roughly. This time, Dean grabbed the bottle and poured for them. They tipped their glasses in sync. Sam watched them drink, Dean and Donnie. He saw Dean in his seventies, like Donnie, gray and a little stooped and lined. For a moment, the feeling was so strong, it held an echo of how he used to feel at the onset of his visions—his Dean, smiling, old and beautiful, and belonging to completely to Sam….

Slapping his shot glass down hard on the table, Donnie said, ″It started then, when I opened that box. Since that time, I’ve seen Ford throughout the house. But...I’ve also seen a Ford I don’t know, a younger guy than the man I met—hell, practically a baby. A soldier, probably Vietnam, considering our age. The Ford I know I run into everywhere in the house, but this teenage Ford, I’ve only ever seen in the bedroom and he never looks at me. He does the same thing every time, says the same thing, like a fucked up film clip, excuse my language. It’s like peering at him through a hole in the world. Mud at his feet, and it’s raining where he is. He was talking, but not to me, y’know? I swear, I thought I was going crazy. And then a few days later, there’s Ford. Again. But this is my Ford talking to me, really talking to me. Promising he’s going to watch over me. Looking like he did right before he passed, but well and happy. But...he shouldn’t be here, should he? Neither one of them.″

Dean looked sad, twirling the empty plastic cup between his fingers. ″No, they sure shouldn’t. But...I think we can convince him to go on.″

What Donnie was describing sounded like a haunting, but coupled with some sort of death echo, Sam thought. But death echoes were reflections of a violent death—and Ford passed fairly peacefully. And not at home. ″Did you bring something of Ford’s back here after he died?″

Donnie shook his head. ″No, there was nothing to bring back but some clothes I couldn’t bring myself to keep. I threw them away as soon as I got home. Why do you ask?″

″Well, ghosts are often tied to something physical they left behind—blood, hair, skin,″ Sam rushed on when Donnie gaped at him, his expression sliding from confusion to vague but growing disgust. But they can also be tied here by unfinished business, like murder, rage...love.″

Donnie dropped his head, but not before Sam saw how his eyes went wet, and wounded.

″The other thing, the other shade,″ Dean cut in, "That’s a death-echo—teenage Ford, I mean.″ He went on gently, moving up to lean into Donnie, his hand on his arm anchoring him. ″There’s something in your bedroom that is holding that echo, that box or something in it, I’d bet, and it was probably triggered by the ghost. The death echo has no awareness. Film clip is a good way to describe it. But the other shade, that’s your Ford, he knows you, loves you...but it’s not really a good thing, Mr. Don.″

Sam said, ″No, it’s not. No matter how much the ghost loves you, and it does, being trapped between...um, planes...″ He sent Dean a glare full of shut the hell up, when Dean mouthed, _planes?_ over Donnie’s shoulder. "Being trapped between _planes_ eventually makes them go...insane. They become deadly, and whatever they felt before death becomes twisted. Ford loves you, but he’s got a reason for being here that makes sense to him. Eventually, it will get twisted. Maybe not now, maybe not for a long time, but it will. When you leave this house, we don’t want to leave Ford here confused and alone.″

Dean was nodding slowly as Sam talked, sadness evident in his expression. Sam knew Dean was thinking about that whole thing with Bobby. Sam knew he’d hoped Bobby, experienced as he was, would manage to avoid becoming malevolent, but the violence, the anger that was a part of almost every hunter’s life, had finally claimed a good man anyway.

″Maybe this thing you're talking about has already started.″ Donnie swallowed, looking nervous now, and the haunted look returned. "He doesn’t want to let me leave. Whenever I stay here, I wake up to find my bags are unpacked, every morning. Sometimes, the doors to the outside won’t open, and sometimes when I get ready to leave he, he pushes me back inside. The last time he did that, I tripped and nearly fell down the stairs. I’m getting worried, boys.″

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. ″We got you, Mr. Don. Don’t worry, okay, because we’re gonna take care of this,″ Dean said.

Donnie sat quietly for a while, and they respected his silence, letting him digest this new, bizarre information on his own. After a few minutes, he sighed, finished off the rest of his cognac and rose. ″Well, boys. Looks like we got some work to do

* * * 

It was quiet inside the house, and Sam had the oddest feeling that it was quieter, unusually quieter, inside than out. Even with most of the furnishings gone, the walls and floors bare, sound felt muffled. Their footsteps should have been echoing in the nearly empty house, but they made hardly any sound at all.

Donnie pointed out the places he saw normally saw Ford.″I see him all over the house. But it always starts here. I get up in the morning, get my coffee, come out here...″ He moved towards the living room window, grabbed a handful of the sheers that hung there. Pulling them apart, he smiled sadly, leaned against the frame. Said, ″He used to get up before me. Make the coffee. Ever’ morning, he’d stand here and watch the sun come up. He’d be smiling. Every. Single. Morning.″ 

Donnie dropped the curtain, and shuddered, a silent sob racking him. He pulled away from the window frame, before turning to them. Sam bit the inside of his cheek. Fuck. He knew what Donnie was feeling right now, and selfishly thought, how lucky he is that he only has to feel this once. 

Dean coughed, and everyone startled. ″Donnie, how 'bout you show me where you’re seeing the death echo?″

″While you guys do that, I’m going to look around the house, see what I can do. Get started on...″ Sam cut his eyes at Dean and shrugged.

* * *

Donnie showed Dean the place in his bedroom where he’d seen the death echo. ″After opening the jewelry box and looking through, I fumbled it, dumping the contents out on the rug. As I was shoving it all back in, this...thing appeared. Like-like I said earlier, a hole in the air. It started just like an old 8mm film clip. Static-y, jumpy, like when they’d start to come off their sprockets, you know?″

Dean kind of did, from watching movies that imitated that action, and from seeing other death echoes. ″And then?″

"And then I lay there, knocked on my ass and scared to death! I told you everything else. Teenage Ford never leaves this spot, never talk or looks at me. Don’t think he can. He’s just a...an echo, that’s what you called it, right?″ He handed Dean the box. ″Here. Something in the jewelry box here made it start. It does its own thing. Starts when it wants, stops when it wants. You can try opening it...but I can't be here when the echo starts up.″ 

He looked apologetic, and a little ashamed, but mostly desperate not to see it, and Dean understood completely. ″You know what, Mr. Don, why don’t you go out, get some coffee...maybe you wanna take Fi with you?″

″Thanks, Dean,″ he said, knowing exactly what Dean was doing. "I think I will head down to the cafe. Take Fidus for a little walk, spoil him with more cookies.″ 

Dean laughed. ″Me and Sam will call you when we’re...if we get somewhere, okay?″

He heard Donnie calling out a goodbye to Sam, and then Dean opened the box. 

A corner of the room started to shimmer, twist and jump. A rapid flutter erupted in the corner and then a hole irised open, and Dean could see movement in the opening. Somehow, he smelled it: _rain, mud, damp clothing and mildew._

″ _crackle_ Yeah... _crackle_...ometimes, you fuck yourself up.″ Dean heard sound coming from the scene, faintly at first but growing louder, beginning to clear up as he listened.

" _crackle_...ut it’s... _crackle_...okay. You always have a chance to fix things.″ Echo-Ford, young, tall, dark-skinned and shaved head—good lookin’ guy, Dean thought—stopped, drew on the cigarette he had tucked in the corner of his mouth, rolling a chunky, metal Zippo across his palm as he did. ″Ya dig me? Long as a cat’s drawin’ breath, he got a chance to fix what he fucked up. When you’re back in the World, tell her you stupid, and sorry. That you love her, an’ nothin’ you wouldn’t do to make it right. Sometimes, that’s all you gotta do….″ 

Dean gulped down a hot knot lodged on his throat. Ford was right. Sometimes it was that fucking simple, if you unbent a stiff neck. If you got over yourself...

Dean caught a faint whistling sound, and Ford shimmered, and the scene faded out. The sound of rain on leaves and mud faded, the wet, heavy smell—mud, vegetation, wet human and wool—faded away, and Dean was crouching near the open jewelry box. He dumped everything out of it, poking at pictures, a pair of earrings, a watch...all of it about 40, maybe more, years old. It took him way too long to focus on the lighter, and to remember Ford fiddling with it while he talked, lighting his and the unseen boy’s cigarettes. There was a dent on the side of the thing, and something black in the hinges that Dean immediately knew wasn’t grime or the patina of time. He knew what he had in his hand.

On Donnie’s back patio, there was a lovely, big, fancy grill—the Mercedes of grills, Dean was willing to bet. Well, today the only thing he’d be grilling was Ford’s old Zippo. He wondered idly if he could get Donnie to sell him the grill...was it wrong to hope that Donnie’d be driven by gratitude to give it to him? Hope never hurt, Dean thought, and tossed the old lighter in the grill. 

Donnie poked his head out the French doors. "I’m back—are you boys out here--″ He stared for a few seconds before heaving a huge sigh, before strolling over to Dean’s side, just as he drenched the old Zippo in fuel. ″Hey. That’s the lighter from the jewelry box, isn’t it?″

″Yeah. He never used it?″

″No. As far as I knew, Ford didn’t smoke. The only lighter we had around were those toss-away Bics for the grill, or for candles we lit sometimes for reasons not your business.″

Dean smiled briefly. ″Okay, to explain; this lighter is anchoring the death-echo. A death echo usually is the actual death of a person, caught in a kind of loop. I think Ford’s actual spirit manifesting set it off, like tripping a switch. I think this death echo we’re seeing is whoever was talking to Ford. But, a piece of Ford—probably blood—got trapped with the other death and true ghost Ford’s energy is making this death and the circumstances around it replay. It’s possible this lighter is what’s holding ghost Ford here, too...but I don’t think so. I think he’s just not able to let go of you. I’m hoping Sam’s taking care of that right now.″ 

″And burning this will take care of...will it allow Ford to take his rest?″ Donnie’s eyes watered up, for a moment, he actually looked his age. ″That’s a good thing right?″

″Well, yeah, it is, for the reasons we discussed,″ Dean said, ″But remember, this isn’t Ford; the death echo is like an old movie of Ford. A...whatyacall it, an eight millimeter movie.″

″Oh, yes, of course,″ Donnie said. ″He won’t feel it or know it, it’s just...a film clip.″

″Exactly.″ Dean struck a match and tossed it into the grill, and the flames shot up, making Donnie jump back. Dean leaned away from the smoke and heat himself, watching as the center of the flame went blue, faded to white, and then, was just a flame, dancing this way and that in the breeze as the smoke wafted higher. Dean refrained from rubbing his hands together in the heat.

″I have some cocoa in the house. Let’s have some.″

″Oh, ah...that sounds just great,″ Dean said and Donnie rolled his eyes. 

"Please. Like I don’t know you. I’m about to change your world, Dean Anderson. Mexican hot chocolate—sweet, spicy and a dash of tequila, just what you need to warm you up. And,″ he stopped and looked Dean up and down. ″You look like you’re a whipped cream man. You like things sweet, I’ll bet.″ 

Dean laughed, nodded. Donnie said, ″And your young man, if I recall correctly, he likes to pretend he doesn’t, but he’s the one sneaking out to the kitchen at night, stealing your sweets, hmmm?″

Dean laughed even harder. ″Something like that, yeah.″

* * *

****

_Sam_

″What are you doing here? Where’s Donnie? I can’t feel him.″

Sam swung around, almost catapulting himself over the couch. He sure hadn’t expected Ford to show now, not while Dean and he were still in the house, but there he was—solid, real, standing by what Donnie had called the picture window in the living room.

Ford looked troubled...he had a grayish cast to his skin, and he was frowning. Sam felt the energy coming off of him, a lot like Bobby had felt like when he’d begun to turn. Ford shimmered suddenly, going from solid to pixelated, making Sam blink. When he opened his eyes, Ford was only inches from him, his eyes blazing and fixed on Sam. Sam shuddered—being this close to the angry spirit felt like sticking a finger in a live light socket.

″Where is Donnie? Why is he hiding from me? So fucking ungrateful—I bought this house for him! How dare he toss it aside like this!″ Ford’s shade flickered and came back, solid, and the punch he landed in Sam's chest hurt like a sonafabitch. 

″Ford, Ford—listen, listen to me.″ Sam backed away, rubbing at the icy, painful spot Ford’s touch had left. 

″That bitch, that ungrateful, unfaithful...is he fucking you? Who are you? Are you trying to take him away from me?″

Ford seemed to grow, thinner and taller, his eyes like pinwheels on fire. ″Ford, you know me, man. I’m Sam Smith. Sam Smith, your neighbor. We lived down the street, me and my br—boyfriend, Dean. Dean Anderson. You remember. You have to remember….″

″Sam? Young Sam? What are you doing here? Why am I—I should be at the hospital.″ Ford looked confused, and then looked around. ″Oh. Right. That’s all finished and now I’m here to keep Donnie safe.″

″But Ford, you’re not keeping him safe. He’s trying to leave and you’re—"

The chill in the air suddenly spiked to frigid, and Ford began to swell again, looming over Sam, but Sam kept talking. ″Not trying to leave _you,_ he need to leave the house. He can’t do this alone, and you can’t help him live here. Don't you feel how things have changed? Don't you feel it in yourself? Think, man, think hard, and look around you.″

Ford looked, at the ice riming the windows, at the shredded edges of the curtains. ″I feel...angry, so angry. Thinking terrible things about Donnie.″

″You need to let go, Ford. You need your peace.″

Ford shook his head, ″No, I, no—″

″It’s okay, Ford. You did everything you could do, honey, and I love you for it, but now, you need to rest. Rest and wait until we can be together again.,″ Donnie said, coming from behind Sam. He held his hand out, winced when Ford took it. ″You go rest, honey, and I’m going to be all right, okay? Just, let go. Rest. You deserve it. Don’t you worry about me.″

″We'll look out for Donnie. You can go now,″ Sam said reassuringly.

Ford looked pensive, unsure, but nodded his head. ″I love you, Donnie,″ he said, and a bright glow outlined him. The glow intensified, filled in the outline until there was nothing left but a tower of light, and when Sam blinked against the glow, it was gone. He heard Donnie’s soft weeping; the bright after image filled Sam’s eyesight and made tears run from his own eyes. 

″Sam? You okay?″ he heard, and felt Dean before he saw him.

″Yeah. Yeah, I really am,″ he said and pulled Dean into a brief hug. ″See to Donnie, would you? Oh, and look around for the dog. I’m pretty sure Fidus took off at the first sign of trouble.″

"Of course he did.″ Dean grinned at Sam. "He’s a smart little furball, that one.″ He looked so proud Sam couldn’t bring himself to point out that Fidus had once again proven that he was neither faithful or brave. But what the fuck, he was theirs.

* * *

****

_Dean_

They drove back home. In the kitchen, Dean set a bottle of Jameson and two shot glasses down in the middle of the table and waved Sam to sit. Sam glanced pointedly at the bottle, and Dean shrugged. He poured for them both and Sam reached across the table, taking his glass from Dean and sitting back, giving him a raised eyebrow and a patient look.

Dean took a sip, grimaced. "Okay, here goes,″ he said. ″So here’s the thing. I’ve missed you, y’know, what we had. Have. And I’m done trying to protect you from things you don’t need protecting from, like monsters, and supes, and bigots, and me. I’m done trying to be the boss of everything about you. And...I _think_ I’m done being afraid of living without you. What I forced on you, I don’t want to do that anymore. I’d promise you not to, but we’ve seen how that goes. I can only say I will do my best never to interfere with the course of things again. I think...I’m grown-up enough to do that.″

Sam nodded, holding his glass, but not drinking. He tilted it back and forth, taking his time about responding to what Dean said and the delay in response had Dean’s anxiety ratcheting up sky high. Finally, Sam nodded, and said, "Dean, we can't know how we’re going to react until we’re in the moment—that’s not a pass I’m giving you, I’m just saying I understand. But more importantly, I appreciate you not wanting to fuck with me or our realities anymore. I’m praying that you remember that the next time it comes up.″

″Yeah, well,″ Dean tipped his glass back, licked his lips before saying, ″There’s not going to be a next time. Or, I should say, the next time, we better be wrinkly old dudes lounging on our porch because we’re not going out there any fuckin’ time soon. It’s someone else’s job now, someone younger, someone on fire. Me, I’m only burning for you.″ 

Sam stared at him for a beat or two before saying, ″That’s the worst, most cheesy—″

″Shut up,″ Dean said. He waited a few seconds himself before saying,″So, upstairs?″

″And get naked,″ Sam said, pushing his still full glass towards Dean. 

Dean blinked. ″Just like that?″ he said, before noticing Sam’s glass in front of him and emptying it because he was a good brother like that.

″You want roses and a band? A gold-lettered invitation? Get you drunk and have my way with yo--″

Dean jumped up, grabbed Sam by the shirt and yanked him out of his chair and through the kitchen. Sam laughed. ″I’m not going to change my mind, you know.″

″Fuck, I’m not going to give you a chance.″ He got behind Sam and pushed him up the stairs. ″With as long as we’ve been waiting, we’ve barely begun to catch up on all the sex we missed.″ 

At the bedroom door, Sam stopped, cupped Dean’s face and said, ″You never had to wait, really. You know that, right?″

Dean shook his head. ″C’mon, Sammy, come inside.″ He pushed the door open and this time, took Sam’s hand to lead him to the bed, pushing him to lie back. Spread out across the bed, he looked incredible, like a work of art.

Dean took his time about taking Sam's shirt off, each button opened got a kiss, lower and lower. By the time his shirt came off, Sam was panting. He was outright trembling by the time Dean popped the snap on his jeans. Dean looked down on his brother—took in how wrecked he looked already. 

Sam’s hands moved up to cradle Dean's head. ″You’re still beautiful,″ he said and Dean closed his eyes, sinking down to nose at the curls revealed when he pulled Sam’s jeans down. He mouthed at the soft skin at the base of Sam's dick, sighing contentedly when Sam started rubbed both hands across his head. His tongue came out, drawing swirls and circles along his growing length. ″Fuck,″ Sam gasped out a laugh. ″Sigils?″

Dean huffed a laugh against his damp skin, and then took the head in his mouth, tonguing around the crown, lapping at he slit. ″Taste good...s’better this way,″ he mumbled before taking Sam down again. 

This was what he’d wanted to spend the rest of his life doing—not necessarily blowing Sam or getting blown every day, though he wouldn't argue against it. This closeness, this intimacy. This was where Dean couldn't pretend or hide, this was where he had to be open with Sam. He loved him, and would always love him, life-long. His soul belonged to Sam, and this was one of the few ways he could truly show him that. 

Beneath him, Sam was groaning Dean’s name, and rocking his hips up slowly, going as deep as possible. Dean moaned around him, fingers sliding around Sam’s hips to clasp him hard. Sam pushed up, deep enough to make Dean's throat flutter desperately around him, and then dropped back, only to come on Dean’s tongue, because he knew Dean liked it. 

Dean let Sam’s dick slide out of his mouth, trying to lick him clean as he went. He waited while Sam took a few minutes to get his breath back...he was petting the back of Dean’s neck, playing with the short hairs there, scratching his fingers through it, and sending little shivers down Dean’s spine. Sam chuckled softly when he felt the tremors rush through Dean. "Like that, don’t ya...″ 

_″Sam,″_ Dean groaned, his throat wrecked; he was nearly shaking to bits with wanting Sam to touch him, suck him, anything to get him off. He loved Sam, but the man was a fuckin’ horrible tease—Sam laughed, like he was reading Dean’s mind, then pulled Dean up until they were face to face. He kissed Dean, slid his tongue into Dean’s mouth. Hard and desperate as Dean was, he was not about to shrug off Sammy’s kisses. Fuck, the boy could kiss….

Sam licked gentle little arcs over Dean’s lower lip, soothing the heat and the slight soreness. He traced over Dean’s teeth, and licked over Dean’s tongue, sucked it gently at first, then slowly building up to a tugging motion that imitated the blow job he’d gotten. Dean’s dick jerked and throbbed where it was pressed between them. Sam gave him another sucking kiss, reached between them and rubbed his thumb over Dean’s wet slit, chuckled when Dean shuddered and groaned into Sam’s mouth. Precome blurted between them, dribbled over Sam’s abs. 

It was positively embarrassing, or would be, Dean thought, if not for Sam groaning in Dean’s ear, ″Dean, Dean, love how fuckin’ wet ya get for me, every time. Leakin’ like a faucet and that’s so _fucking_ hot.″ 

Sam worked his thumb over Dean’s slit, smearing slick around the head, then took Dean’s dick in a tight grip, sweeping his fist up and down, just short of too-hard and too-rough that Sam knew was guaranteed to make Dean come like a rocket, the smartass, and Dean did just that, back curled in an arch as he cursed and gasped his way through it. ″Sammy, fuckin’—fuck, love you. Love this.″

Dean dropped down on Sam, blanketing him until Sam muttered, "Get offa me, Baloo,″ and rolled them onto their sides. Dean let Sam wrap himself around him, both of them needing to be grounded for a few minutes, both enjoying the come down, slowly, together. Sam resumed rubbing and scratching lightly at Dean’s neck; carding his fingers through Dean’s hair until he was almost purring it felt so good.

He finally moved, hips twitching as he scratched at the sticky feeling, grimacing a little. He was practically glued to Sam and as much as he loved him, it was kind of gross . ″Uhm. We need to wash up...″

″Enh.″ Sam shrugged. ″I can wait some. I wiped my hands clean on your hair.″

″Bitch!″

Sam tipped Dean’s chin down, bringing Dean’s mouth close and then thoroughly kissed the hell out of him. He muttered, ″And my line is jerk. Jerk.″

* * *

  
****

_Sam_

They decided to have a party to cement the fact they were staying.

It wasn’t as big a crowd as had come to their Fourth of July cook-out back when, it was a smaller, more intimate group.  
There were old friends from the neighborhood, and new friends from work. Family was there too—Kevin and Cas, as well as the bunker’s newest semi-permanent resident, Charlie. The music was low; a few couples were dancing in the cleared out dining room. Sam watched as Howard and Shel waltzed by. They looked happy, and Sam was happy for them. He wished them a long, joyful relationship in his mind—a totally unselfish wish.

The back door was open, letting cooler air in. It might be hovering on the edge of winter, but it was an unseasonably warm fall, and between the place filled with people and all the cooking going on, the house heated up quickly.. He could hear the sound of happy kids taking advantage of being allowed up late, whooping around in the back yard, and Fidus joining in, barking as he retrieved stick after stick. Crazy dog. At least he was enjoying himself.

Making his way to the backdoor, Sam heard Dean in the kitchen chatting with Donnie and Margie, apparently discussing the finer points of making mac and cheese. By the sound of it, they were heading into an argument and Sam thought this should be good for a laugh. Fighting over mac 'n’ cheese—Sam shook his head. Cooks.

Frankie butt in and broke it up before it got good, though, pulling Margie out of the kitchen to dance, and making her laugh. He winked at Sam as he swung by, and Sam shook his head. Their friends would get nowhere with Dean—he refused to believe the recipe he’d come up with as a starving boy wasn't the one and only one. 

To this day, Dean refused to believe that it wasn’t his mac’n’ cheese that kept Sam alive, made him grow into—as Dean said all too damn frquently—the Sasquatch that he had. Even now when they could afford good, healthy food, Dean insisted in cutting up hot dogs to dump in the mac and cheese mix, along with a can of baked beans. Sam smiled. Dean had done his best to get a super-picky little kid to eat—no easy feat—and macxhotdogxcheese, marshmallow mac and cheese, marshmallow lucky charms sandwiches had worked.

His brother was the best parent Sam could have had growing up. It had been a bit of a shock when puberty set in and Dean wandered off from Sam before he was ready...but that was what was, and eventually, he’d kind of returned the favor when he left for college. 

All water under the bridge now. He’d never trade what he had now for anything. 

  
Sam wandered outside for fresh air and a bit of solitude. He enjoyed get-togethers, but there was always a point where he needed a moment alone to recharge. He walked past the remains of his vegetable garden. Shel hadn’t been interested in growing things, and they’d arrived too late to plant anything this year. He’d make some time soon to reclaim the garden, trim the paths around it.

He could see Baby parked alongside the wide graveled area that Dean and Frankie had set up a fire pit in. He could smell the burning apple wood they’d tossed into it, hear the crackle as it burned down into ash. It smelled good, like a fireplace, and made Sam fantasize about warming himself in front of their own fireplace, curled up on the couch sipping tea while Fidus napped at his feet. Sure, like Fidus wouldn’t squeeze his fat ass between Sam and the couch back, hog all the blankets, and then make Sam fetch snacks for him. He wondered idly just how hard it would be to install a fireplace. He had no idea what something like that entailed. He’d just have to ask his own personal Bob Villa later on. 

Sam sat on a chair he’d found near the fire pit. He spread his legs out and tipped his head back, thinking about their lives now; about Dean and how happy he seemed in this new life. He thought about the long, winding road that had dumped them here, and how fucking grateful he was to be here with his brother. He couldn’t wait to see what the future brought.

″You're thinking hard, and you need to not be doing that,″ Charlie said, appearing out of the dark. She smirked, obviously pleased with herself for startling him. Thankfully, she didn’t say anything about Sam going soft in this new life of his, she just handed him a big plastic cup of something alcoholic. 

"That guy, what’s his name—Bear? He made it, and Dean approved it, so we're probably taking out lives in our hands.″ she said.

Charlie was one of the few people out of their hunting life they thought would be safe enough to invite—one of the few people who knew just how screwed up the Winchesters were. She’d been shocked, but not disgusted, and eventually confessed that it was even kind of kinky-cool, and she was promptly invited by Dean to never, ever, ever say that or anything like that in his earshot again. Sam had to agree. Especially when she started slipping copies of the scary-ass fanfiction those _Supernatural_ book fans wrote under their bedroom doors...evil. 

He eyed his plastic cup of...whatever it was, and said, ″Just thinking about the future, in a way. How different it is here. _Dean’s_ so different here. I like it.″ He took a sip of the liquid in his cup and shuddered, but took another sip anyway. It tasted vile, but he was sure eventually it’d burn his taste buds off and then it wouldn’t matter.

″Me too. I’m glad he can make a home here. You too. And you know anytime you want, the bunker’s there. Me and the boys have it under lock. The door to the Winchester Paranormal Investigation and Information Library is always open to you. Since you gave us the key and all.″ She held her cup up to Sam. "Cheers,″ she said, and to Sam’s horror, chugged the drink like it was soda.

″Well, thanks, I guess. Um, cheers,″ he said and took a wary sip. "I’m glad to see you guys are doing well...and I hear from Kevin you’re charging other hunters for info now?″

″Hell, yeah. You guys might have been all 'it’s the game, the wonderful game’, but mama's gotta eat, and credit card fraud doesn't pay the bills. Well, it does, but its kind of limiting in so far as living in the real world, and our boy Kevin is going back to school, so, charge we do.″ 

Sam gulped a bit more of whatever the hell is was in his cup, wrinkling his nose at the taste. He guessed it was nice to know that he still had a taste bud or two left. ″No, I think what you’re doing is smart. I’m glad Kevin's going to finish school. I'm thinking of doing so myself, not that the job requires it.″

″Yeah, paralegal, hunh? How’s that working out for you?″ Charlie finally took pity on Sam, and grabbed his cup; she dumped Sam’s and her drink into the bushes. Sam said a quick prayer for their survival. 

″Yep. It’s not bad, maybe not what I had in mind when I started out sixteen years ago, but I'm good with it. I’ve been talking to Dean about what he might want to do, seeing as how thanks to the inestimable Frank Deveraux, he is a high school grad with an associates...he could go to school. He could even talk to Howard about expanding his shop. The place was a garage once upon a time….″

″What does Dean want to do?″

″I don't know. Be a fireman? An astronaut?″ Sam, shrugged, laughed softly. "He would make a good cop.″

An arm fell around his shoulder. ″Hey, I’d make a good baker, too, don't you think? I make some world class snickerdoodles, dude.″

″You make a good handmaiden, too,″ Charlie said.

″I do, don’t I?″ Dean said, pulling Sam’s head down to kiss him right at the hairline. 

Sam pushed him away, and snorted. ″Sneaking out to eavesdrop on us, were you?″

"Just came to let you know everybody’s heading out. Cas is taking care of cleanup.″ Dean said. He turned to Charlie. "He said you should come help Kevin and him to clean. He hasn’t gotten any subtler with time.″

"Nope. He is refreshingly honest. At least that’s what I tell myself.″ Charlie smirked and waved as she walked back into the house. 

Music was still audible, wafting out the kitchen door. Dean hummed along, coaxing Sam in closer. They tried to dance, gave it up after a few bruised toes, knocked knees, and a lot of laughter. They settled for leaning close together against Baby’s hood, and watched the sparks from their fire ring skitter up across the sky, dancing away and then fading out. The warm, smoky scent of the fire drifted over the yard, and Sam felt a deep-down feeling of satisfaction, comfort. 

″It feels good to be home, doesn't it?″ Dean said.

Sam nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. The fire was starting to die down, and while most of him was still toasty, his hands tended to ache a bit when the temperature dropped—a pain that managed to remain despite Cas healing him. ″Hmm. Yeah, it does. It feels good to be home, and if feels damn good to be back where we were, you know?″

″We’re never leaving again, Sammy.″ Dean laid back on the hood then, arms folded behind his head, a little smile on his face making him look like he was in his twenties again. 

Sam laid down next to him, eyes on the stars starting to glitter in the purpling sky above them. He pulled and pulled at Dean until he had him arranged so that he could lay his head comfortably on Dean's shoulder. ″I know.″

Dean hummed along to the song they could hear playing and then did something he rarely did, seriously, anyway—he started to sing, quietly, a little hesitantly but surprising Sam by how good it sounded. _″Many dreams come true, and some have silver linings; I live for my dream, and a pocket full of gold..._ you’re my pocketful of gold, Sammy.″

Sam laughed softly, leaned into Dean’s hold. ″Well, here we are, Dean. Proof that dreams can come true.″  
**The End** ♥


End file.
